Eleventh Hour
by militaryhistory
Summary: The Eurasian Unity League did not prove to be a benign hegemony, but rather a cruel tyranny. Now, old enemies have become allies, and it is time to demonstrate that the Mandate of Heaven has passed. Rated T for violence and some language. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jarmen Kell looked through night-vision goggles from his perch on a boulder at the end of a shelf towards Lake Geneva for the inbound flight. Only half his mind was on this, however, as looking for incoming aircraft had become second nature to him over the past decade. The other half was thinking about the events that had led up to the meeting that was about to happen.

He and his comrades, he had decided long ago, had been fools. The imams had promised that the Global Liberation Army would shatter the decadent Americans and arrogant Chinese, bring the Caliphate back into being and unify all Islam, and then go forth into the House of War and bring it into the House of Peace. And so young men had flocked to training camps from Morocco to Sichuan, ready to liberate their people from Western and Chinese oppression.

Even he, hard-headed mercenary that he was, had joined the GLA's cause, for he had owed the Americans and Chinese a debt—the Americans, his parents, killed in an airstrike in Pashtia, and the Chinese, his bride, gunned down in Urumqi during the disturbances there. He had gone to the leadership and offered his services at half his usual rates, for the duration of the war, and the leaders accepted, knowing his reputation.

He had smiled when he heard of the destruction in Beijing, and though the Chinese response there had been swift, it had not significantly damaged the GLA. But then the leaders had grown arrogant, and moved openly into Hong Kong, only to be shattered by an up-and-coming Chinese commander who they had no intelligence on, thinking him not of high enough rank. That same commander, a General Wu Tsien, had shattered GLA forces at the Battle of the Three Gorges, at the Tanggula anthrax factory, and at Balykychy. He had then capped it all of by shattering their supply lines at Bishkek and destroying the GLA headquarters at Dushband in a battle that had put him in the hospital for months.

That was the result of his first encounter with the Chinese mistress of electronic warfare, Black Lotus. He, at least, could say that he had actually shot her, unlike anyone else, though unfortunately it had not been fatal and he had come within a hair of being roasted when a MiG had dropped its payload on his former position. As it was they had had to evacuate him, as he was covered in first- and second-degree burns.

The new battle commander, Alp Arslan, had been far wiser than his predecessor. He had operated as a guerrilla should operate, and dealt the Chinese stunning reverses at the Symkent DMZ and Astana before turning and smashing the United Nations peacekeeping efforts in the Almaty region, after which Arslan had been sent to bring down the Americans' airbase at Incirlik. Kell had finally recovered from his wounds by then, and was sent to assist the assault, which succeeded beyond all expectations. The seizure of the bioweapons facility at the Aral Sea had been one of the best days of his life, as he had then understood the plan to bring the United States to its knees. There had been a brief stopover to deal with a group of traitors near Lenger, and then they had seized the Baikonur Cosmodrome from the Americans and Chinese and fired the missile. What a glorious day that had been, until they found out that the missile had not succeeded.

Then things began to go wrong. Baghdad had fallen after only three days of fighting, and the last-ditch effort to stop the American advance by firing a SCUD Storm at it had failed catastrophically. It was there he had begun to wonder, as the sum total of the casualties caused by that attack had been several hundred civilians. The American commander at Baghdad, a General George Thomas, had then masterfully extracted three elite American pilots captured in Yemen, and then had pulled out American forces that had been trying to fall back from Baikonur. Then the American general had been sent on the offensive, and he took the training camps by the Aral Sea in an amphibious attack that had startled even the GLA's intelligence services. Kell had not been there, nor was he there for the utter debacle at Kabara, as he was setting up contacts with a Chinese general who wanted to be a warlord. When the Americans struck at that general, he was there, and had faced off against Colonel Burton, a man with a reputation equal to his. The two of them had dueled through the city that lay between the two armies, and between them had blown half of it down before Burton had finally gotten a good shot in and nearly crippled him. This was fortunate, as it not only meant that he missed Akmola, but he was given time to think.

The GLA had then, after determining that the missile had failed to detonate due to interception by American anti-missile defenses, fired one at an American military base in Northern Europe—this had succeeded, but it also caused the Americans to send General Thomas to Baikonur and seize it. The American general had then shattered an attempt to use Somalia as a resource base, used Colonel Burton to drop a hundred tons of snow on Dr. Thrax's lab in Russia, seized the immensely lucrative Amisbad oil fields, nearly killing Kell in the process, and, finally, had killed Dr. Thrax with the help of some GLA "traitors"—he had been in that group, actually, assigned to ensure that the madman did not survive. Thomas had then, fortunately, been assigned to an advisory mission to Argentina by the Americans, as their President was up for re-election rather soon, and wanted to avoid the specter of a war hero challenging him for the office.

The GLA had fragmented yet further from its already disorganized state after this defeat, until General "Deathstrike" Mohmar, with Arslan as his battle commander, came in and unified the factions by force, guile, and charisma, finishing by destroying Prince Kassad's army in Cairo. He had then solidified his position as leader by sending Arslan to seize Cyprus and use the Particle Cannons there to shatter the Americans' fleet in the Mediterranean. He had then been sent, along with Kell, to the Pacific coast of the United States to seize some toxic waste facilities, a plan that had succeeded beautifully. Finally, as the Americans fell back from Europe and the rest of the world to protect their shores, Arslan had led an army that used captured Chinese weapons in addition to their own to overrun the American base at Stuttgart. The GLA had begun to build the Caliphate in Europe, as the Europeans had had few military forces of their own.

He had advised against this step, and, along with Arslan, had actually urged Mohmar to assault the Chinese before tying the GLA down in Europe. Mohmar, however, full of arrogance and fervor, for he believed himself to be the man who would finish what Suleiman the Magnificent had started, did not listen to either, and, while retaining Kell, sent Arslan off to North Africa to recruit. As a result, Chinese forces under General Wu were free to destroy the base at Stuttgart with a nuclear strike and then mop-up behind. Then the assault on the nuclear plant at Yencheng had failed catastrophically after he took command of the security force. After this, he had seized Coburg quickly to establish an airhead, had cut off the GLA from its bases in Central Asia by seizing Haberstadt, and, finally, had killed General Mohmar when he finished off the GLA's last stronghold in Hamburg. He had also thought that he had killed Jarmen Kell. He hadn't killed either man, actually, although he had come close to killing Kell. Wu hadn't even come close to killing Mohmar—that had been Kell, who had pulled off the best shot he had ever fired when he dropped him from two thousand yards.

After Hamburg he had withdrawn deep into the Alps with a group of men he had hand-picked for three things. They hated the Chinese government, they were at least ambivalent about Westerners, and they were not fanatical Muslims. When the Chinese began cracking down in Europe and placing areas under military control, his men began to spread throughout Europe, mostly through the mountains and forests. Men, and some women, soon began to flock to the banner his men raised of a Europe freed from Chinese oppression. And Arslan had come too, having come across the Mediterranean in a fishing boat, and Kell had gladly given up command to him.

They had begun to build an army in Europe's mountain fastnesses, its dense forests, and its inaccessible marshes. An army that did not rely on anthrax and suicide bombers, but on skill and stealth. An army built not to destroy the West and restore the Caliphate, but to liberate a continent.

To truly liberate a continent.

He had had enough of revenge. It was sweet in the mouth, but it was very sour in the stomach. Perhaps now it was time to seek…justice.

He was rapidly brought from his musings by the sight of the aircraft he was waiting for.

It was an American Chinook helicopter, doubtless flown in through the gap between radar coverage from Fai's and Kwai's areas of responsibility in Italy and France, and then by flying in the nape of the earth through the mountains. There had been several shipments like this over the past three years, and they had been sent ever since Kell, at the behest of General Arslan, had, on the behalf of the ELA—the Eurasian Liberation Army—put out feelers to the Americans, who were the leaders of the covert alliance opposing the Eurasian Unity League. They had brought precious materials, mostly certain parts for armored vehicles that were very difficult to find these days; with the suppliers in the Middle East and Central Asia being either defunct or cut off, only the Balkans remained among their former sources.

As the helicopter settled onto the shelf, Kell jumped down from his boulder and prepared to call out his men to come out of the tunnel system and pick up supplies. He was rather surprised when the back opened and only a single man stepped out. The two men instinctively whipped their weapons to their shoulders and took aim at each other, laughed softly, and lowered their guns to resting position. It was a ritual they'd developed since their first peaceful meeting together, when each had thought the other was a Chinese agent.

"Hello, Colonel Burton. It's good to see that you haven't fallen out of practice since Casablanca."

"You haven't either," Burton replied. "Being on the run from the Chinese doesn't seem to have taken much of a toll on you."

Kell waved dismissively.

"They are much clumsier than you are in these matters. What to do when found is a much greater problem than what to do to avoid being found. They are also, shall we say, more reasonable in certain matters than you Americans."

Burton grunted. "Sounds about right. I've come with news for the General."

"Right this way, Colonel," Kell responded, and was about to tell his men to bring the Chinook into the tunnels when Burton stopped him and gave a signal to the pilot, who lifted off with some alacrity.

When Kell could hear himself think again, he gave Burton a questioning look. Burton chuckled. "I'm here for the duration, Kell. Things are about to get rolling."

Kell smiled. Excellent.

* * *

Generals Thomas and Townes were exchanging annoyed glances with each other over the main planning table at the Pentagon as Generals Granger and Alexander hashed out yet another rendition of their never-ending, never-changing argument over which one had the better tactics.

"Perhaps," Granger said quietly but fiercely, "if you'd get your head out of your technical schematics you'd be able to see that what's needed isn't fancy defenses, what's needed is the ability to take the fight to the enemy quickly."

"No," Alexander replied, with equal iron, "what is needed is steady build-up until you can strike your opponent with overwhelming force from a position that he cannot attack without exposing himself to taking even more losses."

"Which," Granger rejoined, "sounds all well and good until you realize that this 'slow, steady build-up' is ridiculously easy to interrupt. At least my method keeps the opponent off-balance constantly. All yours does is allow him to build up his troops until he can hit you before your fancy weapons are built."

"Your methods result in more men dying…"

Thomas, the current temporary chair of the committee, finally lost patience. "Enough, you two," he said flatly as he glared at both parties to the previous discussion. "We've had this discussion time and again, and I for one am tired of it. Now, if we could get back to going over our parts for the current plans?"

Granger and Alexander, though still glaring at each other, nodded. Townes simply looked relieved.

"Now, as I was saying. General Alexander, do you understand your part in phase one?"

"Yes, General Thomas. I will provide Particle Cannon and Aurora support from Britain for the European assault forces, and we liberate Europe I will begin shifting my forces into Brittany, Normandy, Scandinavia, and eventually parts further to the southeast."

"General Granger, do you understand your part in this?"

"Move airborne forces to link up with ELA troops in Scandinavia and the Pyrenees, then provide air support for the Iberian and Scandinavian forces."

"General Townes?"

"Take Iberia and France, then link up with ELA Alpine forces."

"And my part," Thomas concluded, "will be to drive through Scandinavia and into Germany and Poland. Are there any questions?"

No one moved.

"Good. Dismissed. I will see all of you in Nottingham in two weeks."

As Thomas left, he considered what had happened over the past three years. When the Eurasian Unity League had come into existence, commentators and pundits with an anti-American bent had predicted that, with a freer than it had been, enlightened, China as the new world leader instead of the hidebound and self-absorbed United States, the world would enter a utopia of economic justice and environmental awareness. This did not come to pass in any way, shape, or form.

The Chinese had had the rest of the world recognize what they always knew—namely, that they were the Middle Kingdom—and had begun treating the rest of the world, particularly the parts reachable by its army, as vassal states. The Eurasian Unity League had started being referred to as the Chinese Empire in Europe by more and more people. Then, a year and a half after Hamburg, the Chinese had pulled a Tiananmen Square on a protest held at the Champs d'Elysees, and initiated a general crackdown and military occupation of Europe when the Europeans did not react like good little barbarians and kowtow.

He remembered his surprise when an organization that called itself the ELA hijacked a Chinese propaganda broadcast with a message revealing itself to the world, stating that there would be vengeance for Paris. Five minutes afterward, the general who had led the tanks and Red Guards in was shot as he was moved to a secure location. The ELA, in an effort to forestall comparisons to the GLA, had then delivered fifty wanted GLA war criminals—high-level malefactors, not just foot soldiers—to London. After this, they embarked on a sabotage and assassination campaign that reached from Lisbon to Mosul, one that had exclusively targeted soldiers, military bases and equipment, and particularly odious civilian administrators.

Then he had been the recipient of a message from General Arslan, asking him to send a man to meet Jarmen Kell in Casablanca. With the President's approval, he had sent Colonel Burton. The two former enemies had been able to put aside their differences, and, as the ELA had demonstrated that they were a guerrilla army, not a terrorist organization, the President had authorized arms shipments to them.

Then the President had begun to organize a group to counterbalance the Chinese and their allies, which were nations like Burma, Venezuela, and South Africa. The first nations approached were the maritime Commonwealth states with effective militaries—Britain, Canada, Australia. All of them agreed to oppose China in the Port Moresby Protocol; South Korea, Japan, the Philippines, and Israel had signed on as a group in the Nairobi Accords; while the Southern Cone nations, Central America, Colombia, and most of the Caribbean joined with the Kingston Treaty. Egypt had agreed to stay out of the war at least, and perhaps roll down into Sudan. The Kurds and the ELA had come to an agreement by some manner of secret meeting.

This had left the Russians, who had not been approached at the beginning due to their excellent relationship with China. However, the two empires had had something of a falling-out over China's arrogance, as manifested by an attempt to turn Siberia into a _de facto_ Chinese colony, and the alliance against the Chinese, which was beginning to be called the League of Free Nations by those who knew of it, gained another member. Admittedly, "free" in this case meant not being subject to China's whims, but still.

The leaders had waited for months for a reason to go to war before China managed to quash the ELA and assimilate Europe, and then they got a _casus belli_ that was almost perfect. An assault on the NORAD mainframe that had come perilously close to hijacking America's strategic weapons arsenal had been backtracked to a major server farm located in the Chinese headquarters in Florence after three weeks of hunting through the myriad labyrinths of the Internet. Similar assaults on Russia and Britain in the same week had also been backtracked to that area.

The timing of the attacks had probably, Thomas suspected, been a warning to the United States and Britain not to get too frisky with their upcoming naval exercises. Thomas smiled to himself. The thing about barbarians is that they do not take kindly to being told what they can and cannot do, and tend to react…poorly.

As China, Lord willing, would discover in two weeks' time.

* * *

General "Anvil" Shin Fai gave an excellent imitation of paying attention as the four commanders of occupied Europe endured listening to yet another interminable teleconference lecture by General Leang about the importance of demonstrating Chinese superiority to the European barbarians by finding and quashing this upstart group called the ELA. The woman, he had concluded after the fourth or fifth lecture she had given them on the subject, clearly had a very tenuous grasp of the reality of counter-insurgency warfare. Did she not understand that the ELA, in many respects, followed Mao's dictum to swim like fish through the ocean of the general population, and that they not only swam through that ocean, but through the ocean of Europe's forests and mountains? Failing that, did she not understand that the policies that she was ordering that they implement, like the orders that she had given for the Champs d'Elysees, would simply make the problem worse?

The answer, he suspected, was no. Despite her undoubted brilliance—she had to be, to be a woman and in command of the Occupied Zone of what was privately referred to as "The Greater Kingdom"—she had not been in the field for anything like a sustained period, unlike him and the three men with him.

Admittedly, her decisions for splitting up command responsibilities had not been outside the realm of reason, Shin thought. Placing him in command of those lands most inhospitable to tanks—Iberia, Italy, the Alpine lands, the Scandinavian Peninsula, the Netherlands, Greece, and the former Yugoslavian states—had been wise, though it did have him running around from his Florentine headquarters quite often. General Ta Hun Kwai, unsurprisingly, had been given those areas where his tanks could be put to use—France, Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg, Denmark, the Baltic States, Belarus, and Ukraine, an area he commanded from his headquarters in Poznan. General Tsing-Shi Tao had been placed in charge of providing power to all Chinese forces in Europe, which was overseen from his headquarters in Vienna, which was also the central power node, though there were several others throughout the Occupied Zone. General Wu, in the meantime, had been given the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Moldova, Bulgaria, Turkey, Armenia, and Georgia to oversee, which function he discharged from Bucharest.

However, the orders she was giving them were, quite simply, madness. Arrest every tenth man and woman of military age? How were they to do that? He suspected that they would begin to make the arrests, and then the order would be countermanded publicly, in order to arrest the decline in China's popularity. However, the orders given that five years in prison would be the penalty for being out after curfew had not helped matters, along with most of the other repressive measures he had been ordered to take that had not been rescinded. The orders for dealing with political protests had been exceedingly bloody-minded—he believed in the ultimate rightness of China's cause, but starting by firing live ammunition into the crowd was a bit much.

Fortunately, she appeared to be wrapping up.

"And finally," she said, "Remember, China shall have its destiny to enlighten all. You are dismissed." And with that, the screen went black.

Shin leaned forward. "Now that that particular bit of business is over, does anyone have any business to discuss? General Ta."

"I am concerned about these Anglo-American military exercises. Their timing is rather close to our attempt to disable their strategic weapons systems."

Tsing spoke up. "First, they have been planning these exercises for almost a year. What does it matter if they move them up a week? They may simply want to provide a bit of practice for preparing faster than previously expected."

Ta leaned back, clearly unsatisfied, but it did not appear that he would press the issue.

General Tsing had nothing to report out of the ordinary, and since it was customary for the man at whose headquarters the meeting was to both chair it and speak last at it, it was then Wu's turn.

"There seems to be an increase in activity in the Tatra and Carpathian mountains. I don't know what to make of it, but I believe that it may presage some sort of assault. I was curious as to whether any of you have experienced the same thing."

"There has been an increase in activity in certain areas under my control, as well," Ta admitted, "particularly in the cities and the Pripet area."

"There have been reports of prowlers near our power stations," Tsing said, "but this has happened before. Doubtless they are simply trying to scare us."

Shin nodded. "While I, also, have had such an upsurge in activity, General, recall that has happened before. While we all appreciate your vigilance, please do not remind us of such matters until there is something more concrete to report."

Wu looked stung, but nodded.

Shin looked around. "Now, for my business. There is little of note in those areas directly under my control. However, there is a report from the cyber front."

This brought all the officers to attention. China was the acknowledged master of cyberspace, in almost all respects—while the American core systems were well defended, they had only been able to do this at the expense of their other systems. Any news on this front should be good. Shin thought it was an excellent thing that they did not know what was about to be said.

"Black Lotus insisted on presenting this news herself," he continued, pressing a button on his desk that activated the buzzer outside the back conference room door.

As the door opened and she walked in, Fai was impressed by the grace of her movements—she walked rather like one of the many cats his mother kept. She halted and braced to attention.

"Black Lotus, you may present your report."

"Generals," she spoke crisply, "as you all know, our assault on NORAD was entirely unsuccessful—while we did some superficial damage, we were not able to succeed in our goal of taking over the Americans' strategic weapons systems.

"Unfortunately, it appears that they have not just developed the capacity to defeat us on their home ground, they can now move outward as well. They traced the attack back to Florence."

None of the other three generals, even Wu, the youngest of the group, visibly reacted, Shin noted with approval. He turned to Black Lotus, and said simply, "Thank you. You may return outside."

She nodded, and turned and walked back out. When the door shut, Shin turned to the others.

"This changes matters."

"Agreed. This does not portend well for the future," Tsing said quietly.

"Which is why, gentlemen, I recommend that your computerized sections be placed on highest alert as we absorb the ramifications of this news."

"Does General Leang know?" Wu inquired.

"She knows."

"That would explain her unhappiness."

"It probably would," Shin allowed, "but rather than discuss General Leang's motivations, I would rather have us adjourn this meeting and reconvene next week so that we may discuss the nature of this new threat. Are there any objections?"

There were none.

"Excellent. I will see you next week."

The other three generals gave their farewells, and walked out of the room to go to the airfield, and from thence to their respective headquarters.

Shin pressed the button again. It was time to discuss what should be done next.


	2. Chapter 2

Black Lotus walked through the door, shut it behind her, walked to the end of the conference table, and stood looking at Shin.

"Do you have any advice, Black Lotus?" he queried.

"With greatest respect, General, why are you asking me this now? Would it not have been better to ask me this while the other generals were here?" she responded, with somewhat stilted formality.

"I find that it is best to have different perspectives on the matter provided in such situations. While doubtless any plan developed will doubtless mostly be yours, sent through me, the organic experts to me and the other generals may find something that you miss. While this is highly unlikely, it is possible, and it might not occur if they are thinking along your lines, as doubtless they would if they knew what you had said," he replied with equally stilted formality.

Black Lotus inclined her head in acknowledgement.

"To put it plainly, General, my advice would be to act cautiously in this matter. We should realize that we no longer own cyberspace, and act accordingly, unless we want to end up like the Kuomintang, or, worse, the Americans."

"What, precisely, would that entail?"

"Increasing our own cyber-security to where we cannot hack into our systems, for one. Despite the fact that the Americans did trace us, they are not able to get into our systems themselves. They also got very, very, lucky."

"What do you mean?"

"One of the hackers did not properly backwipe his trail—he is an excellent operative, but is unfortunately prone to random bouts of dyspepsia. He underwent one of those while he was covering his tracks, and did an improper job. He is being appropriately punished now—currently he is being kept away from Internet access for a month."

Shin appeared somewhat skeptical. "Are you sure that is quite…severe…enough?"

Her mouth quirked in what might have been called a smile if one was being generous, though inwardly she was grinning. "Trust me, for such as him, I fear the punishment may be too severe."

"You know your people best."

"May I continue?"

Shin inclined his head. "You may."

"After increasing our security, we should then train our cyberwarriors yet further. Some of the other groups are getting terribly sloppy. And, finally, remembering that, despite what we say, we can be beaten by the Americans if we are not constantly vigilant."

"I'll be including all of that in my official report to General Leang—except that last."

The two shared a very brief look of shared frustration at the arrogance of China's top levels of government.

"Is that all of the advice you have for me today, Black Lotus?"

"Yes, General."

"In that case, I believe our business is concluded."

"Excellent," Black Lotus replied, smiled, walked down to Fai, planted herself in his lap, twined her arms around his neck, and kissed him firmly.

When she withdrew her lips from his, Fai smiled at her. They had met ten years before, when he had been a colonel on the fast track to becoming a general who had been assigned to the cyberwar department to get him some experience in that area, and she had been a hacker in a different section than his and was already known as one of the best cyber operatives in China. Each had seen advantage in beginning a relationship—for Black Lotus, joining a rising star on the way up was of great potential benefit to her career, and Fai had seen advantage in getting an "in" on the new battlefield of cyberspace—and, perhaps, discovering threats to him from rival commanders. However, much to Black Lotus' surprise, and, she knew, Fai's as well, their sexual partnering had shifted from a mutually advantageous relationship to a love affair.

"It's been too long, my flower," he said, and she smiled slightly at his attempt to be witty. "What? Three weeks?"

"It seems like longer. Speaking of things that should not be," she added as a thought came to her mind, "don't you think you were a little hard on General Wu?"

Shin furrowed his brow for a second, then responded.

"Perhaps—but he needs to learn how to act off the battlefield as well as on the battlefield, and teaching him that when working with people of equal level to him he needs more than just suspicion to tell them they need to prepare for something extremely unlikely is part of that teaching."

"Mmmmm, I suppose you're right. After all…" she smiled wickedly at him as she slid her hand down his shirt, "you know your people best."

"That I do, my flower," he replied as she moved her arms to where he could push her jacket off her, which he did. "That I do. But I believe that it would not be best to proceed further in here," he continued as he stood while holding her, she knew, to keep her near.

As he walked, carrying her, to the door that led to his living quarters, Black Lotus murmured to him, "I have said it before but I will say it again, I have always liked your efficiency."

"It definitely makes life much easier, having workspace and living space so close together," Shin agreed as Black Lotus reached an arm out to open the door. "But for now, let us not speak of such things," he finished as they moved into his quarters.

"Agreed," Black Lotus replied, smiling, as she shifted position within his arms to where her feet were on the floor, after which she pulled his head down and raised her lips to meet his.

* * *

General Arslan was tired, in body, mind and soul. Fighting for and commanding guerrilla armies across the Middle East, Central Asia, and Europe since one was fourteen did that to a man. But there were, he thought, some compensations for that toil, such as the pleasure he felt in hearing an excellent plan laid out before him, even if the man doing so had been his enemy.

"Your generals have developed an excellent plan, Colonel Burton. I now understand somewhat better how you were able to find us so easily, though we hid ourselves with much care, as well as how you were able to target us as you did. This intelligence, quite simply, is amazing. It also fits with all the information we have gained from trusted sources, and much of the information from sources we do not trust.

"There is one matter that concerns me, Colonel. Do you think that you'll be able to bring down the command and control nodes in Florence?"

Burton nodded. "Yes, General. It won't be much of a problem at all."

"Why?"

When Burton explained the plan to him, Arslan smiled.

"Indeed, an excellent scheme. We've noticed some of those flaws as well, but didn't exploit them, just in case something like this came along. However, I will warn you to be careful when you finally meet General Wu. He's a much better general than any of the others, and any apparent gap in his defenses is only that. The GLA learned this to its great cost."

"Agreed, General." Burton paused briefly, then spoke again. "Everything's ready isn't, it?"

"Within the week. We'll be ready when the time comes," Arslan replied, then decided it was time to show the American what sort of army the ELA was.

"Have you seen our tunnel systems, Colonel?" Arslan asked.

Burton blinked in surprise, much to Arslan's satisfaction. "No, General, I have not."

"That is most unfortunate," Arslan replied as he rose from behind his desk. "Come with me then. I have much to show you. Kell, come with us please."

As Arslan and Burton walked down the cold stone tunnels in the mountain, Arslan thought about the work that had been required to produce this underground base. They had been lucky to find the tunnels that water had made in the mountain, and luckier still to have been able to channel the water to avoid flooding every time it rained. They had been luckier than any man had a right to be when they found the caverns that, according to one of his men who had been a surveyor before his girlfriend and her father died at the Champs d'Elysees, went to within a hundred yards of the outside of the mountain.

As they turned the corner to get into the control room for the main cavern, Arslan almost thought he could hear Burton inhale sharply. It was rather impressive, he admitted to himself.

The cavern was floodlit in order to give light to the production facilities for the ELA's heavy vehicles. The din as workers built Marauders and SCUD Launchers could be heard through the glass as a dull roar, though Arslan knew that it was, in fact, much louder.

"How did you people build all this?" Burton asked in wonderment.

Arslan smiled. "The ELA takes many of its strengths from the GLA. One of these is the knack for tunneling that caused you and the Chinese so much trouble back in the late war. We are quite experienced with making demolitions that are very difficult to notice, even if you know to look for them—and the Chinese do not know.

"We've built ventilation shafts that spread throughout the mountain, following natural cracks in the rock, and they dump heat all over the area. Believe me, Colonel, when I say that it was a miracle how quickly we were able to build this.

"It also helped that many of these caverns were already here, and simply required a little expanding."

"How do the locals not notice this?"

Arslan shrugged. "This is not a particularly high mountain—I doubt that it is even named. There have been less than a dozen hikers over the past year and a half, and the noise is hidden by the rock."

"How are you going to get the equipment out of here?"

"We have been chipping away at the wall of the closest cavern to the outside for nearly a year now. We are currently less than twenty feet away from having an opening. When the assault begins, we will blow the charges we have put in place, create an opening, and roll right on through."

Burton nodded. "I see. Are there any more places like this?"

"No, I am afraid not, which is why I am glad that our lighter equipment is rather easier to conceal."

"I see. If I may ask one more question, General?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have room for a hundred Pathfinders?"

"Could you please repeat that?"

Arslan heard Kell chuckle softly.

* * *

"And do try not to get sunburned, Josiah. You know what happened the last time your unit went out to the NTC."

"Yes, Marilyn, I remember," Major Josiah Reynolds replied, with the air of a man who knows that his wife really doesn't think he is entirely incompetent to take care of himself.

"Good," she responded as she embraced him one last time before he left for training. "I'll miss you," she whispered as she broke off.

"I'll miss you too," he replied, turned, adjusted his duffel bag and backpack one last time, paused to wave his wife goodbye one more time, and walked towards the meeting area for the embarkation.

The unit for which he was the executive officer, the Third Battalion, Sixty-Ninth Armored Regiment, First Brigade, 4th Armored Division, was preparing to go out and engage in some maneuvers at the National Training Center at Fort Irwin, Nevada. They were a "mixed battalion"—that is, they had one Paladin and three Crusaders in each tank platoon, and every command tank was a Paladin. There were no units fully equipped with the Paladin as of yet, due to combat losses in the Middle East and Central Asia and the tanks left behind in the last stages of the pullout from Europe, and even some regular army units only had Crusaders. Of course, there could've been more Paladins if Congress hadn't split the tank procurement budget and manufacturing between Paladin production and Laser Tank production.

However, it couldn't be helped. And besides, it wasn't as if they were going to war anytime soon, although public opinion was turning against the Chinese Hegemony, as the Eurasian Unity League was informally called by anyone not bought and paid for by Beijing. He snorted. Given what had happened during the last war America had fought, he'd be surprised if the suits in Washington went for it. Also, he very much did not want to fight the Chinese. Although their Battlemasters were anything but, those Overlord tanks had a terrifying amount of firepower and some very tough armor. That, in addition to the Chinese tendency to use "tactical" nuclear weaponry—and everyone knew that a tactical nuclear weapon was one that exploded a thousand klicks downwind of you—as well as the fact that China controlled Continental Europe and most of Asia made the prospect of taking on the Chinese…daunting, to say the least.

However, that was not his worry right now. Right now, his worry was the hot Arizona sun and the men of OPFOR.

He had been thinking through this even as he was being saluted and was saluting in return as he went down the halls towards the embarkation area where his battalion waited for him.

They boarded the C-5 Galaxy transports three hours later, not something that was especially peculiar, as the battalion was based in North Carolina. However, he'd made this flight before, and when they didn't make the turn they normally made to go to Arizona, he began wondering where they were going off to. The other troops who'd been to the NTC noticed this as well, and started to talk about where they were going.

"Hey Sarge," he heard from the back of the compartment, "Do you know where we're going?"

"They don't tell me anything, Corporal," he heard the sergeant reply, "but last time we took a route like this was back during the Second Gulf War when we were flying to Europe on our way to Iraq."

"Why would we be goin' to Europe, Sarge? Thought the Chinese owned it, 'cept for the Brits."

"No idea, Corporal. But whatever we're there to do, we'll do it."

Reynolds suddenly had a suspicion about what they were going to do. The mobilization exercises that they were holding with the British, the unannounced diversion from Fort Irwin to…somewhere else—they added up to one thing.

But there was no way. There was no way the President would be willing to commit American troops to a war against a another superpower Chinese alone, or even with the aid of Britain, especially after the end of the last war. And what about this ELA organization? It would be a three-cornered fight in Europe if America invaded now.

But maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was a test of the military's ability to manage a full-scale mobilization somewhat unexpectedly. Yeah, that was it.

He tried to go to sleep thinking this, but the coldly logical part of his brain whispered right before he dropped off, _Don't lie to yourself. You are going to war._

* * *

Tadeusz Ziemski looked out from the forest onto the fields of a yet-again occupied Poland. _My grandfather fought the Nazis, my father marched with Walesa, and now I strike at the Chinese. Will my son have to free this land from an occupier as well?_

He shrugged bitterly, then turned back to his men and felt a glow of pride as he looked them over. The Home Army was one of the few units of the ELA, along with the Baltic Forest Brothers and Ukrainians, that was entirely native-born, there being enough live men and women who had fought from underground to teach the newcomers how to survive and fight.

They were, however, much better equipped than the Home Army had ever been. Electronically controlled cars, RPGs, technicals, heavy sniper rifles—Bor-Komorowski would have killed for half of what they had. They might have held Warsaw.

He thrust the thought aside. That was no matter. What mattered was now. And—he looked at his watch. Almost time.

"Gentlemen," he said softly, and his command team rustled attentively. "Remember your parts in the plan. Eagle."

"Strike the bunkers and Gatling turrets, then follow in once Stork launches their assault."

"Stork."

"When we hear an explosion, breach the fence near the reactors. Do not attack the reactors. Defend against all comers."

"Goose."

"When we hear Stork begin, attack the motor pool and cover the barracks."

"And I'll hit the command center. Get to your troops. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit."

The other men echoed his words, and they moved, quickly but quietly. He looked around at his group, Pigeon. The smallest, but fastest and heaviest, group. Two upgraded technicals, five RPG men, four riflemen, and himself. It was a light force, but if they needed heavy weapons they'd already failed.

Fifteen minutes passed. Stork and Goose should be in position. Eagle had been for half-an-hour already. He signaled Eagle's commander with a hand motion.

Six cars leapt forward. Once, they might have been piloted by suicidal maniacs. Now, they were driven by teenagers using video game controllers. It was more vulnerable to countermeasures, but the defenders shouldn't have time to activate them.

They didn't.

Both the turrets and bunkers exploded before either could get more than a few rounds off, and Eagle's riflemen came in right behind to clear out the guardhouse and open the gates. He didn't hear the breaching charges go off, but he heard machineguns and assault rifles rattling, and knew Stork and Goose had made it in.

And there it was. The gates were open. "Go!" he snarled, and the two technicals leapt forward, bouncing over the rocks and grass before landing on the road and speeding through the gates, firing over Eagle's head the entire way.

Ziemski took a quick inventory as they drove through. The Chinese infantry were trapped in their barracks, and the motor pool and reactors were secure. Now all that was left was the command center.

"Come on!" he yelled as the vehicles slewed to a halt and the men in the truck beds fired into the doors, blowing them aside like so much kindling. He led his men in in a rush, blowing down a conscript staggering to his feet as he caught sight of the doors to the command center closing in front of him.

He cursed, then waved Boleslaw forward. It was a very good thing the backblast on these new models was less than that of the RPG-7. He really didn't like getting singed.

Boleslaw fired.

The door blew open.

Ziemski and the others charged, killing everyone inside who didn't surrender fast enough. Which was all of them.

"Right, set the charges. Let's move, boys. If the ambush fails we're going to be in trouble in around fifteen minutes."

All the charges were set in five minutes.

The Poles were out three minutes later.

Two minutes afterward, the base exploded.

The Chinese reaction force that responded to the attack never reached the base. Instead, it ran headlong into the ambush that Ziemski's attack had been the bait for. While they managed to drive off the Poles, it took them nearly half an hour to reorganize themselves.

By that time, they had received orders to return to their base outside of Wroclaw immediately. The Chinese had much bigger problems than the destruction of a company-sized outpost to worry about.

Like the fact that the White Eagle flew over Warsaw.

* * *

The command center for the invasion of Europe might have looked like barely controlled chaos to the untrained eye, but Thomas drew deep satisfaction from what he could see as he heard the staff adjusting for the inevitable friction of war on the fly. The plans were proceeding on schedule, although the Anglo-American forcs had not yet made contact with the enemy yet. General Alexander's Aurora Alphas should be striking…now.

They couldn't do a lot of strikes—the Aurora was _expensive_ , the Aurora Alpha even more so, and there simply weren't that many of them in the inventory. They also couldn't hit the really high value targets, because the bombers had to slow down in order to turn around after hitting their targets, and could not speed up again, for reasons that he did not understand even though Alexander had tried to explain them to him.

As a result, sending them to hit the _really_ high value targets—namely, the Chinese generals' headquarters and central power nodes—would have meant that those would be the _last_ strikes those bombers would ever perform, and they might need them later. However, they were still useful for other operations, like striking Chinese power bases that the ELA couldn't reach along the Bay of Biscay, the English Channel, the North Sea, and the Norwegian Sea to clear a path for Granger's planes and the first wave of the invasion force.

As they were presently doing, and he waited grimly for the first reports to come in. If they'd succeeded, and if the guerrillas had managed to do their job right, the Chinese defenses along the coasts would be crippled—not beyond repair, but badly enough that they wouldn't have time to fix the damage before his troops hit the beaches.

If they hadn't—well, the invasion would still probably succeed, but a lot of American boys and girls would be dead. They couldn't afford the sort of casualties that had been taken at Normandy or Saipan, not if they wanted to actually win this war.

Then he felt the tension in the room drop sharply, and before the communications specialists even gave him the news he knew that no one would be flying through or debarking into a hailstorm of Gatling fire.

That still meant that a lot could go wrong, though, and he sat back and took another sip of his coffee, even as the caffeine and the stress combined to roil his stomach like a gale.

* * *

General Wu Tsien was a profoundly unhappy man, for several reasons.

First, he was unhappy about how his forces were deployed. While at least his area of responsibility was geographically congruous, unlike General Fai's, it was still nearly four thousand kilometers from end to end, depending on how you traveled it, the road networks were generally lousy, and the terrain was tailor-made for guerrilla warfare, especially in Turkey. That worried him especially, because most of the supplies from China to the Occupied Zone went through or over the region, and the only reason he hadn't reported the guerrilla activity in the area at the last meeting was because there hadn't been any change since the last meeting—or so he'd thought.

This led him to the second reason he was unhappy. Due to a delivery mixup, he had not received the latest intelligence briefing regarding the Caucasus before he had needed to depart for Florence, and so he had not known that there was credible intelligence that the Peshmerga, the ELA, and possibly the Israelis were coordinating…something. He wasn't sure what it was, but it probably wasn't good.

That problem led to the third reason. The Politburo could not seem to understand that they would not be able to hold the lands between Portugal and Turkey—at least not for long. The supply lines were too long and the populace too restive.

But until they understood that, he would follow his orders to the letter, and those orders were the fourth reason that he was unhappy. Right now, he needed to check on the progress Colonel Tan had made in setting up the necessary facilities to hold the millions of people General Leang had ordered him to arrest. The operation would certainly tie up nearly all of his manpower, which he needed to deal with things like incipient anti-Chinese alliances. Furthermore, carrying out the order was going to be counter-productive at best, and he was not convinced that Leang or the Politburo would countermand it. Moral qualms did not enter into it—the problem was that, as one of his intelligence analysts had put it, "The gweillos have found their manhood again."

While he'd corrected the woman for the pejorative—such attitudes were not conducive to a well-functioning occupation—she'd been right in her assessment.

And that worried him, because if anyone knew about how easy it was to put together a guerrilla movement against those who were extremely foreign, it should have been his government.

Unfortunately, they had forgotten the history of their country, and that once their people had been mocked by the Westerners as unmanly and submissive.

His phone rang, breaking into his melancholy thoughts, and he reached for it almost absently, an attitude that vanished almost instantly.

"General!" a strained voice he was able to recognize as Colonel Bao's yelled, "it's a full-scale uprising!"

He could barely hear the sound of gunfire coming from behind the head of security, but the headquarters was definitely under attack.

"Can you hold?"

"Yes, General. The headquarters will be able to hold until relief arrives. But they will be delayed."

"That is unfortunate, but do not worry. I will be taking personal command of the situation. Until I do, I will leave command of the defense in your capable hands." He looked down at his desk when his pager vibrated. Major Lin was on the line. Doubtless with bad news, but at least she would know what was going on.

"Yes, General! We will not fail," Bao replied, his relief audible even over the phone as he unknowingly broke into Wu's thoughts.

"I will not distract you further," Wu replied, and hung up the phone and turned on his headset. "What is the situation?"

"Very bad, General," Lin replied with a strained voice. "The ELA guerrillas, backed by the Americans, have launched raids and uprisings all across occupied Europe. We could doubtless crush them, given time, but that is the one thing we do not have. Reports are coming in of Aurora strikes in key locations, followed by paratroopers and amphibious landings."

Wu grunted. Unlike his superiors, he had expected that the Americans would not forever cede their status as global hegemon without a fight, but he had not expected it quite so soon. If only he had—then again, it probably wouldn't have done any good.

"Thank you, Major. Do we have any orders, yet?"

"No, General."

"Good. Then we have time to make our own." His mind sped furiously. "Priorities are to protect the supply dumps and keep the airfields, ports, and main roads open. Withdraw from the cities if we have to, we can reclaim them later. Istanbul is the sole exception—the troops there _must_ hold." He paused. "Are there any reports from the Caucasus?"

"No, General."

"Tell the forces there to be ready for anything. I don't trust the Russians."

"Yes, General. Will there be anything else?"

"Yes, Major. It's going to be like it was back in the war again. We work better together."

"Yes, General!" she exclaimed, and Wu smiled. They would not fail.


	3. Chapter 3

Sergeant Aloysius Germain was an extremely happy man, for several reasons.

First, he was missing his wife's family reunion. It wasn't that he didn't love his wife, it was just that her family didn't like him much, and so gatherings with them were always a little uncomfortable for everybody involved, especially him and his wife.

Second, he was in the field. The only thing better than that was being at home with his wife, _alone_ , when they both weren't working the next day. Also everyone around him understood, and most shared, his sense of humor. There just weren't that many people who that was true of—and, unfortunately, his wife was not one of them.

Third, he was about to live a Pathfinder's dream—namely, taking a seemingly impossible shot to decapitate an entire enemy front, and hopefully destabilize it for those critical few hours it would take for American forces to establish themselves well enough for them to be in a position to link up with the ELA and liberate Europe.

Fourth, he was working with Colonel Burton, and he'd always wanted to do that. The man made Bull Simons look like a wuss by comparison, and he couldn't wait to watch him do his thing.

Right now, however, he was carefully keeping his sights on the door, waiting for his target to emerge.

He spoke quietly. "Any changes?"

"Nope," his spotter, Corporal Emerson Palmer, replied. "Target is not leaving the room. Temperature up here is still fifty degrees, temperature down there is fifty-five. Wind speed ten miles an hour up here, five miles an hour down there, easterly direction. Range is still further than we'd really like."

Germain chuckled slightly, but Palmer had a point. They'd set up as close to the Chinese base as they possibly could, but when he made the shot it would be in the top ten longest-distance shots ever taken.

While he loved the challenge—you didn't become a Pathfinder unless this was the sort of thing you enjoyed—there was some pressure there, no lie.

"Target moving!"

* * *

Shin prided himself on being able to exceed the physical fitness standards for men twenty years younger than him, but he and Black Lotus had been apart for several weeks, and while both of them had people they saw on the side each very much preferred the other.

As a result, the bedroom calisthenics had gone on for more than an hour, and had only ended when he nearly passed out from exhaustion, mentally cursing the fact that he wasn't a decade or two younger.

Even so, he was not a heavy sleeper, a trait he had noticed and honed from an early age, which was why it only took him two rings of the telephone to wake up and pick it up.

"General!" Bao Li, the commander of the Florence garrison reported, voice taut, "There is a general uprising in Europe, coupled with an American invasion."

"How long has this been going on?" Shin asked, even as he reached an arm over to shake Black Lotus, still sleeping next to him, awake.

"Reports began trickling in fifteen minutes ago, but we had no idea of the scale of the assault. They do not seem to have attacked us here in Florence. I do not expect that to last."

"Agreed. I will go to the attack headquarters immediately. Have a full situation report ready for me."

"Yes sir!" the colonel replied as he put the phone back and turned to look at where Black Lotus was already sliding her pants on. He always wondered how she was able to combine both such grace and speed.

"You heard?" he asked, and she nodded.

"I'll need to get to my station," she said. "If we can destabilize their information networks, it will make throwing the Americans and their allies back into the sea that much easier."

"Agreed. Do be careful, though. We need you."

She smiled. "Always. You do the same."

As she left the room and he put on and began to button his shirt, his mind ran through the contingency plans he and his staff had set up and which ones they would use. It would obviously be one of the Cao Caos, the ones for a simultaneous invasion and rising, but hopefully it would be one of the lower plans, and not one of the higher ones. It would be best to assume the latter, he thought as he left the room as well, walking quickly.

Running tended to send the wrong impression.

He opened the door to the outside.

He never knew what hit him.

* * *

Kell had been somewhat disappointed when he'd been informed that he was not going to be sent after Shin Fai. That feeling had faded quickly, however, when General Arslan had informed him who _his_ target was.

Admittedly, going after Ta was not nearly as satisfying as removing Wu from the board would have been, and he was also unsure of whether it was really a good idea. Ta was a fearsome opponent under the wrong circumstances, but there was little subtlety or real cleverness in his tactics, and he was easily baited. If Wu ended up commanding the Chinese forces in the Occupied Zone, however, the League would find it extremely difficult going once the Chinese got their feet back under them.

That, however, was why they were leaving Tsing-Shi alive, as he was senior to Wu, and thus would be in command once Fai and Ta were dead or otherwise out of commission. He tended to be very protective of his power grids, and would probably tie Wu down defending them.

As to the infiltration, the most challenging part had been in getting to Poland from Switzerland—once he and his team reached the country, there had been almost no trouble whatsoever, even infiltrating Poznan. Apparently the men of the new Home Army had learned from their predecessors.

He hummed slightly as he made some last-minute checks on his rifle. This would not be a difficult shot—the Poles had managed to get him within half a mile of Ta's helipad—but he'd have to get it exactly right.

He knew Arslan wantedhim to shoot the Chinese general down as he left the building. Kell wasn't going to do that, though.

Ta preferred to lead from the front as often as possible, which meant that he used one of his special Helixes as a mobile headquarters station, and Kell knew that what they needed was the disruption caused by Ta's death more than Ta's death itself, and if he took out the headquarters Helix, with Ta, his staff, and their communications equipment on board, it would be far more devastating than simply killing the general alone.

His would be the first shot fired in Poznan, if everything went according to plan, and he looked through his scope at the helipad. Yes, the Helix was landing, and yes, there was his target, walking swiftly towards the thing with his staff in tow.

They climbed aboard, and as it began to lift he placed his sights on the pilot's chest.

Yes.

Just high enough.

Don't breathe. Don't move.

Squeeze.

Target down.

Watch the aircraft fall.

See the fireball.

Regain your awareness of the rest of the world.

Kell moved quickly from his rooftop perch, rifle in hand. The Chinese would doubtless be looking for the man who had just slain their general, but they were about to have bigger problems.

As he opened the door to the stairs, he heard the explosions that heralded the attack on the headquarters building itself. By the time he reached the first landing, he could hear gunfire coming from everywhere.

He would make his report, then he would go hunting. Overlords were excellent machines to have on your side, and he intended for the ELA to have some.

* * *

Corporal Bai Chiang slouched back against a stone wall and laid his head against it as what was left of his regiment reorganized itself on the outskirts of Zaragoza.

He was hungry, tired, and more than slightly footsore, but this put him a step ahead of most of his comrades, whose bodies marked the road they had taken from Bilbao.

Their commander, Colonel Feng, had scheduled a drill the night of the uprising, and as a result had managed to crush the ELA forces in Bilbao when they emerged from their hiding places. This, however, had kept them from attacking the American landings in northern Spain, and they had prepared to defend the city. However, when word reached them that the Americans had landed in France as well, Feng had ordered them to retreat towards Barcelona, against orders.

They had barely made it out of the city before the ELA and Americans cut the last road out—in fact, he'd heard that the support units who hadn't been under the colonel's command had all been cut off, due to their failure to move quickly.

He'd been in the vanguard of the fighting retreat, which meant that he'd been facing rifles and RPGs instead of drones, tanks, and helicopters. Despite the fact that he was a Tank Hunter, and a good one, he hadn't minded, as blowing out buildings was just as satisfying as blowing up tanks, the guerrillas tended to hide in them, and being in the rearguard meant a much higher chance of ending up trapped.

Not where he'd been wasn't dangerous. At every other town, the same thing happened. A volley of rifle fire would cut down several Red Guards, and then, when the force turned its attention towards where it had come from, several RPGs would come from another direction and one of the tanks would blow. Then they would engage in a quick firefight, which would end in either the guerrillas scurrying away or, if the Chinese were lucky, getting wiped out.

This was fairly standard tactics for the ELA, but he'd noticed something different—most of the vehicles being destroyed were Gatling Tanks. This wasn't particularly odd, as they did tend to go through infantry like a thresher through wheat, and so the guerrillas usually targeted them. But none of the Dragon Tanks had been hit, and the few times that the ELA had fought openly they'd been targeted as well—which was also unsurprising, since they burned out buildings like their namesake—but almost none of them had been destroyed.

However, the regiment had found out why during the last fight before they reached Zaragoza. The battle had started much as the others had, but it had quickly turned into something else, as the guerrillas stood their ground and fought—and had brought enough troops to not make that an invitation to be stomped on.

However, his battalion had been making headway as the firepower of the Inferno Cannon and Battlemasters began to reduce the buildings to rubble, while the Dragon Tanks waddled forward to burn the guerrillas out, and the battalion behind them had added its long-range firepower to the battle.

But then he'd chanced to look up, for some reason, had seen black shapes blotting out the stars, and so knew to duck as the first chaingun rounds and missiles came sleeting down and he realized that the ELA had been clearing away the obstacles for their American masters' airplanes.

Well, he'd decided he wasn't going to have it, and he came up to one knee, raised his launcher to his shoulder, and fired off a round at the nearest Comanche. The other Tank Hunters had followed suit, and they had managed to drive the Americans off, with at least half a dozen of their helicopters destroyed.

However, the guerrillas were still dug in, most of the tanks were gone, and he could hear the sounds of the rearguard fighting off the Americans.

That was when he'd seen him. Colonel Feng, crouching and holding a rifle like an ordinary soldier, running towards his position.

He hadn't stopped to make a speech. He'd simply halted, looked around at the soldiers trying to reorganize under fire, yelled "Follow me!" and charged forward.

To his surprise, Chiang had followed him, along with the most of the rest of the survivors of the lead battalions. The resultant battle had been a thing of missiles fired from rooms too small for the backblast to disperse at buildings close enough that the missiles wouldn't arm and explode until they hit the far wall while men stabbed each other in the next room, but they'd broken through.

That battle had meant that the regiment would reach Zaragoza, as the ELA forces had melted away and the Americans had broken contact once they'd realized that the regiment wouldn't be trapped. It had also decided whether or not the Colonel would be court-martialed for disobeying orders to begin with. He'd died destroying the last strongpoint in his men's way.

And now they had orders to fall back all the way to Barcelona. But they were still alive, and they could still defend China. That was victory enough for him.

* * *

Sergeant Henri Descartes crouched behind a stone wall, his tank-hunter squad behind him. He was fortunate—only half of them had been civilians before the Chinese came, and he had at least been a corporal before those fools in Paris had disbanded the army after the formation of the Eurasian Unity League. Not that there had been much of it left, then, after the long post-Cold War drawdown and the GLA takeover, but still.

That, however, was irrelevant to the present situation, and he poked his head out briefly to make sure that conditions hadn't changed since he last looked.

They hadn't.

The two platoons of Chinese infantry who had been deployed to try and stop the advance from the north were dug into the buildings on the outskirts of the little town, about an hour north of Tours, and they were well-supported by armor, as could be expected for troops who'd been under Ta's command. Four Battlemasters, two Gatling Tanks, two Dragon Tanks, two Overlords, and a pair of Inferno Cannon were hiding among the various buildings. There weren't any Helixes, but that was because the ELA had specifically targeted Chinese airfields for destruction, and the Americans had managed to gain air supremacy over France.

At least he assumed so—he hadn't seen a Chinese aircraft since the fighting started yesterday.

Their job, and that of the other troops in the force that had infiltrated the town, was relatively simple—strike when the Americans attacked and blow the vehicles straight to hell.

The problem was the Dragon Tanks. The Americans would make short work of them, of that Descartes was sure—he'd seen two Technicals turn one into scrap metal in a matter of seconds during the fighting for Angers. However, those tanks' flamethrowers would also make short work of him, his men, and the rest of the ELA infantry, which would make them a very bad distraction.

The Inferno Cannon wouldn't be pleasant either, but if you were under cover the shells tended to break apart without penetrating, and that was survivable.

Also, having some of their tanks suddenly explode would certainly cause the Chinese some…agitation.

He smiled thinly. His younger brother had been at the Champs-Elysees.

He turned back to his men, three men with RPGs and six men and women with rifles. He still wasn't comfortable with that last, but they'd held their own so far, although the fact that no one in the ELA carried full kit helped.

"Here's the plan," he said quietly. "When the Americans attack, we'll use the distraction to run to that farmhouse. From there, we'll take out one of the Dragon Tanks. If one of the other squads takes out the other, we'll start moving to take out the other vehicles. Understood?"

The others all nodded.

The sound of a Laser Crusader tank firing split the morning air.

"Move!" Descartes yelled, and sprinted for the hopefully-abandoned farmhouse as fast as his legs could carry him, the others right behind him.

When he attempted to open the door, however, it was locked, but his boot made an excellent key. They piled in rapidly, and discovered that there were windows, both upstairs and downstairs, that faced towards where the nearest Dragon Tank lurked.

Two of the RPG men went up the stairs, while the third waited with Descartes, crouching below the level of the window, and the other six guerillas moved to various windows just in case the Chinese infantry came this way.

He waited thirty seconds, then tapped the man with him on the shoulder. He rose, fired, and the old sergeant once again blessed whoever had made sure that you could use the things inside a house without lighting the place—and yourself—on fire.

The moment he heard the sound of the two men upstairs firing, he poked his head up as the man with him dropped down to reload, just in time to see something penetrate to the fuel reservoir and turn the tank into a blast furnace.

He might have winced in sympathy, but he'd seen the aftermath of a Dragon Tank's work. The men inside that thing _deserved_ a slow death.

"Sergeant! Gatling tank headed our way!" he heard one of the others yell from the next room, and he grinned. They probably thought he and his men would be out in the open, not in a building. Well, it was time for them to learn that they were wrong.

He opened his mouth to tell the RPG men to move to that side of the house to take the thing out, but the Battlemaster round that went through the window and blew him apart on impact prevented him from doing so.

* * *

Captain David Wilson carefully scanned the sky for MiGs, although there hasn't been any since sometime before noon yesterday. The Chinese had learned quickly that Raptors in the hands of trained pilots could survive an encounter with and inflict heavy damage on to three times their number of MiGs, and there'd only been a few occasions when they'd been able to assemble even that kind of superiority.

Intel said that they'd pulled all their fixed-wing assets out of strike range from American airfields, but while he was an adrenaline junkie, getting cocky was how you got dead. Besides, MiGs were at least a challenge, which was more than he could say about his current assignment.

He supposed that that was a good thing, but it was still boring. He briefly checked his location to make sure that he was on course for Gotland and nodded. There'd been a crosswind coming out of Oslo, and while they'd adjusted for that it always paid to be sure, especially given how tight the air corridors were near their target area.

As the flight went past Stockholm half the planes peeled off, and he sighed in relief that he wasn't having to fly CAS over the city. Chinese and ELA forces were all mixed up, and while American airborne soldiers were providing invaluable forward observation services, they were stretched thin, and would be until the first ground troops arrived.

Which, from what he'd heard, would be soon, but until then flying air support there would be fraught with the potential for friendly fire on a career-ending, or life-ending, scale.

"Alright, boys and girls," Major Friedman's voice crackled over the radio. "Get ready—intel just came down that there's supposed to be a major flight of Helixes coming from Lithuania, several with Gatlings on them. Those are our targets, so stay sharp. I want us all coming home alive from this one."

That would make things more difficult, but at least it would be less troubling than their last run. Antishipping strikes were, he supposed, necessary, but he knew good and well that most of the sailors weren't volunteers, but locals who'd been press-ganged into serving. Also, the ships couldn't dodge, and usually couldn't shoot back. It felt—unclean.

A Raptor flight flew past them, on their way back to base. He wondered what their target had been—ELA forces had taken much of Gotland, but the Chinese seemed determined to try and hold what was left. Possibly the artillery park-Stockholm was taking more damage from the defenders than the attackers, at this point.

All of this ran through his mind while he checked both his instruments and the sky to see if there was any sign of the enemy Helixes. There wasn't any, and so he settled down and flew on towards their destination.

Thirty seconds later, however, he came to alert as he saw new radar signatures pop up. Were they...

"Helix flight is where Intel said it would be. Let's go get 'em, drop to angels two," Friedman said, and Wilson sighed a little. He would have preferred to wait until they were coming back from the city, then take them down with everyone on board. Then again, these might be carrying reinforcements or supplies—as long as Stockholm held out, League forces would be unable to use the Baltic between Rostock and Helsinki.

That slight inconvenience probably wouldn't be worth the sacrifice of another battalion of troops, but he didn't know how whoever was in charge on the other side thought.

Friedman came on the radio again and called out their targets.

Wilson carefully painted his two—he wasn't sure if either had a Gatling on it, but you should do your work well—and fired, half a second after Friedman and in the middle of his flight's salvo. He didn't watch the missiles cross the distance, as he was too busy turning his fighter around to avoid any fire from the surviving craft, but he could see the radar signatures disappear.

As they flew back to Oslo, he wondered if all he'd done was keep some Chinese troops from escaping.

As it happened, the Helixes were carrying reinforcements—reinforcements who arrived in Stockholm without a single tank, and whose condition caused the commander of the garrison to surrender, though only after sending all his aircraft to Gotland, overloaded with able-bodied troops.

That didn't matter much, though. The Chinese forces on the island surrendered twelve hours later, when American Tomahawks started landing.

* * *

Thomas was far from complacent, but he was more than a little pleased with how the invasion had gone so far. Chinese forces in the Nordics were already limited to Helsinki, and were frantically trying to evacuate across the Gulf of Finland to Estonia. Unfortunately for them, Granger's fighters were blowing their Helixes out of the sky, Alexander had turned the port facilities at Tallinn into so much rubble, and the combined ELA and American forces were dishing out far more punishment than they were taking. He anticipated a Chinese surrender shortly.

His forces, in the meantime, were already in Germany, racing south and east in order to cut off the Chinese forces in the Benelux region off from the rest of the Occupied Zone, and to prevent the troops in the Baltic states from retreating—not that they were having much luck with that, as the Forest Brothers and Home Army were wreaking havoc along the roads south.

Townes' invasion also seemed to be a roaring success. With British forces providing support from Gibraltar and one of the strongest ELA presences in Europe lending him aid, he'd forced the Chinese forces in Spain into headlong retreat, those who hadn't been cut off in the west of the country. That evacuation was going rather better for the Chinese than the one across the Baltic, although given how far it was from Valencia to Corsica, which the Chinese had only managed to hold on to by abandoning Sardinia, he didn't think that many would escape.

France was also almost liberated—Chinese forces were falling back onto Marseilles and into Germany, attempting to get to Eastern Austria before the ELA units in the Czech Republic or Austria closed the routes east.

And that was another thing. The ELA had performed yeoman work, almost single-handedly liberating Switzerland, in addition to closing off the Pyrenees and the Alps while also tying down Wu in the Balkans.

There, however, was the fly in the ointment. Wu had managed to survive the attack on his headquarters and hold his forces together by sheer force of personality, and was keeping the supplies flowing into the Occupied Zone while also eliminating the ELA forces that had come out into the open and were within striking distance of airports, seaports, or major roads. While he was glad that Wu's troops would not be launching any counterattacks for some time, he knew that the cost had been high—and, if Wu had been allowed a free hand, would have been even higher.

Fortunately, he wasn't. Tsing-Shi seemed to have decided that Vienna had to be defended, and, being senior to Wu, ordered him to relieve the city—or so Thomas presumed, since every spare unit Wu had was clearing either the road between Vienna and Bucharest or the road between Bucharest and Istanbul.

Istanbul. Now there was the brass ring.


	4. Chapter 4

Wu Tsien was rather annoyed, for several reasons.

First, he was not being permitted to _do his duty,_ which was to secure the Balkans and Turkey as a potential springboard for a counteroffensive against the Americans and this "League of Free Nations" of theirs. Their alliance with the ELA was not surprising—they would do anything to reclaim their former place in the world.

Admittedly, there were differences between the ELA and the GLA. For one thing, many of his men had been taken prisoner during the confused early hours, which with the GLA would have meant that they would be either gunned down or used as hostages. The ELA had done neither. For another thing, they weren't throwing anthrax around like it was water, and they weren't using suicide bombers. They also had all of the old GLA's tactical competence, and very little of the fanaticism that had been so easy to exploit in the old days.

Well, and they had American planes flown by American pilots supporting them, with Particle Cannons blasting out stubborn strongpoints, and were probably receiving satellite reconnaissance information as well. Those were definite force multipliers.

Despite all of that, from his perspective, the ELA forces in the Balkans had shot their bolt. They would be a nuisance, yes, but had taken enough casualties that it would take them some time to recover. His men had fought like heroes, and while it had helped that the Americans had concentrated their support efforts in areas to the north and west, his men could have been still trying to pry the ELA out of their positions. As matters stood, the ragged survivors of the ELA's strike forces were retreating into the countryside to lick their wounds.

However, Turkey had been suspiciously quiet, and there were still indicators that something was going on between those opposed to the Chinese in the region.

He cursed the Politburo for quashing the Kurds' dreams of independence. Why could no one remember the lesson of the Polish Legion or the Wild Geese? He also didn't trust the Syrians not to come apart the moment they came into hostile contact. The exercises he'd been to last month had not impressed him.

Second, and related to the first reason, Tsing had been bombarding him with messages asking for his progress on opening up the road to Vienna, sometimes once every thirty minutes. To make matters worse, after they'd learned of General Shin's death, Tsing had also ordered him to evacuate Italy as soon as the last troops came in from Spain and Corsica. That they could probably at least hold the area around Taranto was an argument he had made in vain—Tao had decided that the Americans were going to send their carriers into the confines of the Mediterranean, cut off any forces left in Italy, and then probably invade Greece.

That said carriers had never been seen anywhere within range of three or more functional airfields was something that had apparently escaped his notice, and Tsien had half-a-dozen operating by now, despite the ELA's harassment. Also, he was fairly certain that the Americans didn't have the troops to invade Greece.

In addition to that, Black Lotus had apparently gone missing, and Tao wanted him to find her. How, exactly, he expected him to do that while handling everything else was an open question, but at least Tao had taken charge of overseeing the retreat. Supposedly he was trying to set up a line that ran roughly from Trieste up to Salzburg, then over to Brno, then Kosice, then Lvov.

He hoped that would work, although he thought that attempting to hold Brno was a bad idea.

That, however, was not his concern.

What was his concern was assuaging Tao's worries, and at least he could tell him that the road was clear to the Austrian border. That still meant it would probably be another few hours before his men and Tao's linked up, but with any luck he should be able to get a resupply convoy there soon.

Hopefully Tao would let him loose, once he wasn't worried about running out of bullets.

* * *

Major Josiah Reynolds wasn't happy, but he wasn't unhappy either. He was far too tired to be either. They'd landed in Denmark a week ago, and they were already crossing the old border between Germany and the Czech Republic.

It hadn't exactly been a pleasure cruise, either. There'd been at least one battle a day, sometimes two, and the battalion was already down ten tanks. They'd destroyed more than forty, several of which had been Overlords. Those has accounted for all but one of their losses, which had been due to a Tank Hunter ambush in Kiel.

However, one of those tanks killed by an Overlord had been Lieutenant Colonel Petrovich's, and while he hadn't died, he'd been extremely badly injured, which meant that Reynolds now commanded the battalion.

Well, technically he commanded the task force built around the battalion headquarters, which consisted of two armored companies and a mech infantry company, in addition to two companies' worth of ELA troops, whose officers and noncoms were mostly _Bundeswehr_ veterans, thankfully. Having to command men whose only experience with American command and control was from the receiving end might have been difficult.

As matters stood, though, it looked like they were on track to reach Teplice before nightfall, which was good—apparently the Chinese were trying to make a stand there, and the local guerrillas both hadn't been able to pry them out and weren't sure if they could stop them if they tried to break out to the southeast. Intel said the Chinese were trying to set up a defense line in that direction, and every man killed or captured here wouldn't be in that line later.

Besides, he still owed them for his men who'd fallen along the way.

He looked up at his company commanders.

"Intel reports are that there's a battalion-sized force in Teplice. Some ELA fighters are there, but they won't be much help beyond reconnaissance. It seems to be a scratch force—rear-area troops and whatever odds and sods ended up in town. No turrets or bunkers, but they've occupied several of the buildings.

"Air support is limited to the Comanches we have right now. Everything else is tied up interdicting the roads to Prague."

"No Particle Cannons, sir?" Captain Al Doubleday asked.

Reynolds shook his head. "We're on the far edge of the nearest uplink's range. If we came under attack from two battalions of Overlords, we might get authorization. Otherwise, not until they manage to catch up."

Everyone nodded at that. The Particle Cannons were precise enough that you could use them to wipe out a defensive line and leave what was immediately behind it untouched, but their accuracy declined the further away the target was from an uplink. As had been seen in a horrific friendly fire incident in Frankfurt, the consequences could be…severe.

One of the ELA men spoke next—what was his name—Friedrich Seydlitz, that was it. "Do we haff any word from the others?"

"They were just coming in sight of Usti nad Labem an hour ago." There were some excited murmurs at that. The 3rd Brigade's objective was to take Litomerice, in preparation for 4th Armored Division's relief of the ELA forces trying to hold on in Prague.

General Thomas's orders had been very clear: there would be nothing like what happened in Warsaw in 1944, or anything that even looked like the League was abandoning the ELA to die. They hadn't been able to stop the Chinese from smashing the ELA in the Balkans, but they would certainly keep it from happening anywhere else.

Not for the first time, Reynolds wondered if or when Russia would get involved. But that didn't matter right now.

"Here's the plan. Doubleday, you're with Seydlitz. Move to…"

* * *

Prague was burning, and Elizabet Hrad was doing her best to avoid being burned with it.

The Chinese were trying to hold on to the city, and she wasn't sure why. What she did know was that, if relief didn't arrive soon, she and the other survivors of the ELA force that had _almost_ taken the city were going to go up in smoke.

They'd come so close. If that armored battalion hadn't come riding in just as they were about to make the final assault on the Hradcany, they would have taken the place, and could have defied the Chinese forces that had arrived in the city in dribs and drabs over the past few days indefinitely.

But it had come in, and crashed into the rear of the main assault force, smashing it against the anvil of the defenses around the castle, and then rolling up the surviving attackers. Colonel Zizka had managed to rally enough troops to hold something of a defense together, and called in reinforcements from those towns that had been taken, but the Chinese had used their positional advantage ruthlessly. The castle offered a view of the entire city, and there had been two batteries of Inferno Cannon in the relief force. After the first two attempts at setting up strongpoints had been firestormed into dust and ashes, they'd been forced to disperse into small hit-and-run teams to try and slow down the Chinese advance.

The Chinese had responded by destroying any block that they were attacked on with Battlemasters and Dragon Tanks.

It wasn't pretty, but it was effective, and by now the ELA troops had been forced into a four-block perimeter, albeit one on the north side of the city, closer to where the Americans hopefully were coming from.

That was the only bright spot, however. The cellars were full of wounded, the water wasn't working, and food and ammunition were both short. She only had two magazines left, and she was carrying a gun stolen from a dead Red Guard.

She poked her head up again to look through the window. The situation outside hadn't changed. There were four Battlemasters, two Gatling Tanks, and a Dragon Tank covering the street, while Red Guards and Tank Hunters searched the houses. It wouldn't be long before she and her squad would have to either fight or flee, and they were running out of places to flee to.

No, they'd have to stand and fight, she decided as she dropped back down. At least for a little while. At least there was only the one Dragon Tank—if they took that out, they could probably hold out for some time.

"Moravec. Syrovy." The two RPG men leaned in. "Get to the second floor, and take out the flamethrower. We'll open fire when you do. Seredova, Svejnar, go with them. The rest of you, spread out along this floor. We're going to hold here for a little while, but be ready to run if it looks like we'll get burned out."

This was a gamble, but it was worth taking. If nothing else, the Chinese seemed to have gotten more cautious in the two days since the Hradcany, and were backing off a little whenever they took equipment losses. She hoped that meant they were starting to run out, but she feared it wouldn't make a difference in time to saver her comrades.

She poked her head up again to pick her target. There was a Tank Hunter standing right next to one of the Gatling Tanks, and he seemed to be slightly more alert than the others. Killing him might buy the ambush a little more time before their targets realized where they were being shot from.

She readied her rifle.

And raised it to her shoulder and fired the moment she heard the whoosh of the rocket launchers. Her target went down, as did several of the other infantry in the street, but the Dragon Tank was still active despite having taken two direct hits.

They must not have hit one of the fuel tanks, and she found herself praying for the first time in years that they'd be able to hit the next time, because otherwise…

The Battlemaster in the rear of the Chinese force exploded, followed quickly by one of the Gatling Tanks. How had they managed to get so many back there? She had no idea who'd come to their rescue—the smoke was too thick.

Then another Battlemaster blew apart at the welds, and the infantry, already taking cover, started moving into the buildings as they began to take fire from the rear. She fired a few rounds to hurry them on their way as Moravec and Syrovy, good troops the both of them, fired again. This time, one of the Dragon Tank's treads blew off, but it was still there.

Then it went up in a ball of flame, and she ducked down to blink away the afterimage—as, she imagined, everyone had who'd had even a corner of their eye turned in that direction.

She looked out again, though, only to need to duck as someone fired from one of the buildings that the Red Guards had occupied. At least the tanks had all turned their attention to the rear, though, at least from what she'd been able to see.

But why?

She scuttled over to the next window and poked her head up again, just in time to see several somethings go into one of the buildings the Chinese infantry had fled into, just as the other Gatling and the next-to-last Battlemaster went up in smoke.

Then white light shone out of the building, and a Red Guard stumbled out, blood pouring from his nose.

Someone, probably Svejnar, put him out of his misery, just as the final Battlemaster's turret hatch opened and a soldier climbed out, doing his best to keep his hands in the air. Then Chinese troops began to come out of the buildings, hands raised in surrender.

Then, looming through the smoke, she saw a Crusader tank, and began to weep in relief.

Prague was saved.

* * *

Colonel Mustafa Talabani was a morose man. It was well-known that he was a morose man, which was part of the reason that he was morose.

He was also extremely competent, and didn't automatically regard non-Muslims with more suspicion than he did other Muslims, which was why the Peshmerga had assigned him to this part of the operation.

He wasn't really looking forward to it, for several reasons. First, his force was a mix of Syrian and Iraqi Kurds, who didn't always get along well. At least he didn't have any Turkish Kurds with him, though—the resentments that would have come into play then would have made his job impossible, instead of very difficult.

Said job being to act as the tip of the spear of the Peshmerga's main offensive, which would, supposedly, link up with the Israelis somewhere in Syria and cut off Chinese forces in the Occupied Zone from resupply.

He wasn't entirely sure why his commanders thought that the Chinese wouldn't be able to resupply their men—after all, the Peshmerga's modern AA missiles were for use against MiGs, not cargo planes, and they were the only weapons they had that could reach normal cruising altitude. Perhaps the Israelis would contribute something positive to the Middle East, finally?

Well, that was being unfair. They had blown that pig Hussein's reactor to Hell back in the '80s, which was more than he could say for the Saudis, he thought as he drummed his fingers on the hatch of his Marauder, waiting for the signal. And…there it was.

He dropped into his tank and spoke into the radio, set to transmit to all units.

"Forward, my brothers," he said quietly. "For Kurdistan."

And with that, the border between the Kurdish Autonomous Region and Syria went hot, as the soldiers and vehicles painstakingly infiltrated to within striking distance leapt forward, brushing aside the feeble opposition they faced with contemptuous ease.

He wasn't surprised. The Syrian border troops had impressed him even less than the rest of their army. But they needed to keep going—it was a long way to Palmyra, and he would _not_ let the Israelis get there ahead of him. Yes, they were closer, but he knew good and well that they'd be facing Syria's best.

Of course, him getting there before the Israelis depended on his fellow commanders being reliable, but the Peshmerga was more coordinated than the Iraqis or Syrians could ever dream of being, even when the GLA had briefly taken the countries over.

He said a quick prayer to Allah as his tank crunched over one of the border gates, asking that the GLA would not return. His people had enough problems, they did not need another to rise from the grave.

* * *

Sergeant Bai Chiang was considerably less tired than he'd been three days ago, although that wasn't saying much. The regiment had been one of the last units evacuated from Spain to Corsica before the Americans took Minorca and cut off the air evacuation route. While there, he'd gotten promoted—there was a shortage of noncoms, apparently.

From there, it had been a short seaborne hop over to some town called Civitavecchia, where they'd been thrown into whatever vehicles were available and sent down the last clear road over the Apennines, which took them to Pescara, where they were now waiting for…something.

Rumors were more plentiful than dumplings in Canton. Some said they were going to be evacuated to the Balkans, while others thought they would be sent to try and take back Rome or Florence, and a few extreme pessimists whispered that they might surrender.

He didn't know, and he didn't care, he thought as he looked out at the barracks yard, although if they were falling back to the Balkans it would make keeping his squad alive much easier, at least for a little while. At least they'd been resupplied—he'd had to leave his old missile launcher behind in Valencia in order to make room for another man on the Helix, and it was good to have one again.

"Attention!" he heard one of the older sergeants say, and he got to his feet as Feng's successor, Major Wang, stepped into the open space.

"Stand down," he ordered. "We've received our orders. We move north in six hours. ELA troops are about a hundred and fifty kilometers north of us, but there's precious little between them and here, and I've been told that the Americans are about to join them."

That wasn't good news at all, but it wasn't surprising. He'd heard about what had happened in Florence—Shin Fai dead, the city fallen, Black Lotus vanished.

"We need to hold this place until we evacuate all our forces in central Italy," Wu continued, "which is why we're being sent to reinforce the defenses at Martinsicuro."

Bai had no idea where that was. Hopefully they wouldn't have to march up there.

"They'll have Crawlers for the infantry. Get your gear together and draw rations for two days, and overload your ammunition. I don't know how long we'll be up there, and we might not get much in the way of resupply. Dismissed."

As he left the yard, presumably to go tell the rest of what was left of the regiment what they were doing, one of his soldiers spoke.

"Sergeant?"

"What is it, Zhou?" he asked. The kid was a good troop, but he asked far too many questions for his liking.

"How long do you think we'll be up there?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Bet it'll be at least two days, and who knows what'll happen if they force us out. You remember what the retreat to Zaragoza was like."

"Do you think it'll be like that?"

Bai shrugged. "How should I know? We probably won't have the ELA blocking our way, but the Americans might drop in airborne infantry. We don't know, and it doesn't matter. Just keep low, don't do anything stupid, follow orders, and you'll be fine."

That got the kid to be quiet, which was a relief. The last thing they needed was for someone in the squad to start asking questions that would have them looking over their shoulders.

Still, he would much rather be going to the Balkans.

* * *

Black Lotus lifted her head up carefully. She had always been careful, when she was out in the field—she could defend herself, but her skills had always run more to subversion than to direct combat. Her usual method was to hide and capture things or steal money while everyone was distracted by something else, and, if discovered, run.

Right now, however, she had to be even more careful than she had been then, because it wasn't just her, sneaking along this hillside in the Apennines. No, she had half-a-dozen of her best hackers with her, in addition to twice that number of Red Guards and Tank Hunters, and they were all expecting _her_ to lead them to safety.

This was her fault, though—when she'd heard the sounds that had announced Shin Fai's death, she'd known that there was going to be a major attack. That cyberattack on NORAD had been exactly the excuse the Americans had been looking for, and she'd cursed General Leang briefly. She'd argued against the idea, saying that it would do no good and have the potential for much harm.

Even as she'd done so, however, she'd been getting herself together. Several of her people were based in Florence, none of whom had any real experience in battle, and they were an exceedingly valuable resource that needed to be protected.

She'd anticipated that they would just need to hold out for the night, then either make their way to the airfield and get on the first cargo plane to safer climes, or wait for the imminent relief force. By the time she'd reached the hacker center, however, the airfield had fallen. And by the time morning had hit, two things had become clear. First, the NORAD cyberattack had given the Americans the excuse they needed to reclaim control, as the president's televised address had mentioned it was the reason for the attack. Second, there was no relief coming.

At that point, there was only one thing to do: evacuate. She'd wanted to try and get to the north, towards Vienna, but intercepted communications told her that route was locked down tighter than the Forbidden City. Their best chance was to try and make their way through confused areas where they could pretend to be something other than what they were, and going south was their best chance of that.

Pescara seemed to be holding out, so that was where they would go.

Getting out of Florence had been nerve-wracking. The hackers were not trained to infiltrate, like she was, and virtually none of them had any real field experience. The same was also true of the infantry who'd been guarding the Florence Hacker Center, which had received only minor attention due to being disguised as a spare parts warehouse.

That meant _she'd_ had to disable multiple ELA vehicles by herself, using both the center's original guards and troops who'd fled there when they were cut off from where they were supposed to go as distractions, to take out the vehicle crews, and to crew the vehicles. Three Battle Buses, two Technicals, a Rocket Buggy, and a recaptured Assault Crawler later, the survivors had made their way out of the city, after setting the Hacker Center to explode the moment someone opened the door.

The next two days had been a nightmare. Constantly having to talk their way past ELA checkpoints, occasionally picking up lone Red Guards or Tank Hunters that were on the run once they could be convinced that they were also Chinese, firefights when something went wrong, and the occasional realization that while she might have as many soldiers as she started with, fewer and fewer of them were the ones she started with.

That, and the moment when a Technical driver had panicked and driven off the road into a Demo Trap, taking five of her hackers with him.

The fool.

They'd had to abandon the vehicles last night. Not only had the situation become much less fluid, as the ELA consolidated its control and Chinese forces either reached safety or were destroyed, but they'd intercepted orders that said to be on the lookout for her, and ELA troops were becoming much thicker on the ground.

So they'd dismounted, and started to walk. Which had presented its own problems, because while she'd insisted that her hackers be in reasonably good shape, even the infantry, who were supposed to be trained for this sort of thing, had had a difficult time of it.

However, they'd pushed on, and that was how they'd gotten here, a kilometer outside some town called Accumoli, where it seemed like friendly territory began.

Unfortunately, there also seemed to be a full ELA battalion between them and the friendlies. Worse, they seemed to be preparing to attack. This was going to be difficult.

"Sergeant Cao," she said, turning her head and speaking quietly. "Come here for a moment."

"Yes, ma'am," came the equally soft reply, and after some rustling, the old noncom was right beside her, looking at what she'd seen.

"What do you think?"

He looked down at the ELA troops. "Looks like they're planning an attack. Could be trouble. Or an opportunity, if you're willing to risk it."

Her mind raced. "You mean we wait until they attack, then hit them from behind."

"Yes ma'am. If it doesn't work, we'll probably all die. But if it does work, we'll be safe. And I don't think the ELA would be attacking unless they knew they could win. Guerrillas are like that."

She nodded. She'd hand-picked the veteran for the center because of his record. Cao had served for twenty years, most of it in Western China and Central Asia, first suppressing the Uyghurs, then the GLA, and he'd always been fighting actual militants.

"So our choices are to attack and possibly die, but possibly reach safety, or to wait and then have even further to go to reach safety, which would increase our chances of dying?"

"Yes."

"We attack." She paused. There were many things she was good at, but small-unit tactics were not one of them. "Sergeant, get the soldiers together and do whatever you need to do to prepare. You'll command the assault."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "We'll need to get in closer, which we should be able to do if we're careful. But they'll attack once the sun sets, and that's not long from now."

The next thirty minutes were a quick but quiet whirlwind, as Cao got the men who were actually trained to fight organized, while she made sure that the hackers would be ready to move quickly when the time came. That done, they moved as close as they dared, less than half a kilometer from the ELA force's headquarters.

And then they waited for night to fall and the guerrillas to attack. She was initially able to distract herself by performing a quick hacking job on a computer inside the headquarters tent to access the microphone and get some voiceprints of the men and women inside. Once she had enough for the program to be able to change her voice to that of the officer in charge, she shut down her computer—the charge was rather limited—and found herself just wishing for something, _anything_ to happen…

And then the sound of battle erupted from in front of them, and she wasn't thinking that anymore. Instead, as she knelt beside Cao, she found herself itching to get in the fight.

"When should we attack, Sergeant?" she asked quietly.

"Not now. We wait until they're committed to the fight. If one of their companies turns around, they'll wipe us out." They waited another five minutes, as the tracer lines and explosions began to rise to a crescendo.

"They're committed."

"Go," Black Lotus ordered, and Cao rose to his feet and yelled, "Follow me!"

The soldiers rose raggedly, as she and he had expected—few of them had even been in the same battalion, much less the same platoon—but they did, all the same. They knew that the only way home was through the fire, and that would hold them together.

She hoped, she thought as she got up and began to run herself. The sergeant hadn't liked this part of the plan, but if she was able to take over the communications equipment at the headquarters quickly, the chances of their surviving went up significantly.

Right now, however, she needed to focus on not tripping, although she spared a thought for the hackers coming in behind her, hoping that none of them would injure themselves permanently.

She didn't see Cao and his men attack the headquarters while the guerrillas there were entirely focused on their assault, but she could hear that it was only Chinese assault rifles firing, except for a brief burst that sounded like it came from a Technical and ended with an explosion.

When she arrived, Cao was still alive, but half a dozen of his men were not. However, none of the ELA troops were still breathing, and she was already breaking out her laptop before the sergeant noticed she was there.

"Private!" she barked at one man who didn't seem to be doing anything.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Take this cord and plug it into that radio, where that other cord is right now," she said, pointing, with the hand holding the cord she wanted him to take, to a cord attached to a headset worn by an older woman whose brains were leaking out on the table.

The private did as she said, and within seconds she was in their radio system. Now for the fun part.

"Kilo-One," she said, switching on the microphone and trusting in her voice alteration software to make her sound like a forty year old Italian man, "do you copy? Over."

"Alpha-Zero, this is Kilo-one. Attack is progressing successfully. What's your status, we heard gunfire just as the last transmission cut out," the commander of the reserve company replied.

"Just some Chinese fugitives," she replied, "and they're dead now. Your previous orders are canceled. We just received a report that a Chinese column is coming up from the south, and someone needs to block it. That's you."

"We could take the town and then..."

"There's no time for that. They're fifteen minutes away, and if you don't move now they'll be hitting us in the back." She smiled at the irony. "Now move."

"Understood, sir. Moving now."

She wanted to move now; unfortunately, that was a bad idea. If the guerrillas realized what was going on, which they probably would if the headquarters was out of contact for more than a minute, they'd turn around and come back.

She also needed to prepare the other companies for what was going to happen. That wouldn't be especially difficult, though.

"Hotel-One, Jason-One. Have pulled Kilo back to block Chinese reinforcements. We've received some unexpected reinforcements as well, and they're moving up now, so don't be alarmed when they appear."

"Understood." "Message recieved."

Then they waited another five minutes. Five minutes of listening to ELA troops slowly prying their way into Chinese positions. Five minutes of wondering if this was the right plan.

When Kilo-one radioed in to say he was in position, she sighed in relief once she'd switched off the radio.

"Sergeant."

"Yes ma'am."

"Let's go."

"Move out!"

It would take five minutes for them to reach where the ELA troops were battering their way into the town. With any luck, the sudden attack from the rear would cause the guerrillas to retreat in confusion, allowing them to get into the town.

As they got closer, the sounds of battle got steadily louder, hampering her ability to hear what was going on over the ELA radio net. At least they didn't seem to be contacting the headquarters asking for things. The absence of Rocket Buggies was a curious one, though, and she wondered where they were.

Very briefly, because within fifteen seconds after the thought entered her head, she heard her troops begin to open fire, earlier than she thought they should. However, she recognized exploding Rocket Buggies when she saw them, and nodded in recognition. Using the things as close support made sense.

Now, of course, the ELA troops would probably know they were being attacked, but maybe it would be enough, she thought as she made her way forward, wondering if a hidden Quad Cannon would open fire and tear them apart. None did, but she could hear the guns of the infantry firing up ahead, and hoped that they wouldn't be caught in a trap.

If it came down to it, she was confident that she could get out no matter what, and if the plan failed badly enough that would be exactly what she did. But abandoning all these men (well, not all, as some of them didn't think of women as being quite human) wouldn't sit well with her.

Once she and her hackers finally got in sight of the fighting, she took a moment to look at what was happening and relaxed slightly. The ELA troops had apparently been so focused on getting into the town that they hadn't even noticed their artillery support going away, and Cao's men had taken full advantage of that.

They were already in the town themselves, and the guerrillas were starting to break and run as they found themselves unexpectedly caught between two fires—one of which was coming from troops they had thought were reinforcements.

It wasn't long before the firing in this area came to a halt, as the surviving guerillas ran past her position, and she could hear the sound of the firing on the other side of town starting to die off as well.

She moved forward, then, hoping that some idiot wouldn't decide that seven ELA troops weren't making some kind of stupid last charge and mow them all down after all this time. That would be…frustrating. To say the least.

But no one did, and it wasn't long before she, along with Cao, was standing in front of the officer in charge of the defense, a colonel named Wang Lin.

"Black Lotus," he said, somewhat deferentially, "it is an honor to meet you."

"Thank you. My men and I require transportation to the nearest headquarters."

He nodded. "Of course. I will have a Crawler take you to Pescara. That's where we're evacuating from Italy."

Of course they were running. "Who is in command now?" she asked.

"General Tsing Shi Tao, ma'am."

It would be too much to ask that it might be Wu Tsien, she thought bitterly. If _he_ were in charge, or if Shin Fai were still alive…no, she _couldn't_ think about that right now.

Forcing her mind off that, she looked at the colonel again. He looked like he wanted to ask her something, but wasn't sure if he could. What—of course.

"Sergeant Cao."

"Ma'am?"

"How many of the men who arrived here with us were originally in the guard force?"

"Six, ma'am. Counting myself."

"They will come with us. The rest stay here."

"Yes ma'am," Cao replied.

There wasn't much she could do for the colonel, but she could at least do that. Besides, she really wouldn't be surprised if many of those men found their original units here.

That, however, was no longer her concern. What was her concern was staying awake long enough to get in the Crawler, and then going to sleep until they reached Pescara, wherever it was, and then finding some way to get back into the fight.

They needed her. Badly.


	5. Chapter 5

General Arslan was both pleased and somewhat apprehensive as the Battle Bus that served as his mobile headquarters moved towards General Thomas's mobile command post.

Pleased, because Thomas was meeting him as an equal—they had both driven to Salzburg from their main headquarters—and because he and the ELA had earned the right to be treated as such, with blood and fire. The League, and especially its American leaders, would never have managed what it did without the ELA, and knew it.

Apprehensive, because it was the first time the two of them had met face to face, and while they had never faced each other on the field of battle, they had faced each others' friends and colleagues—and had, more often than not, killed them. Thomas's roommate during his plebe and sophomore years at West Point had died at Incirlik, and the only other member of Arslan's initial cell to survive more than a year had died in Baikonur—and those were only the closest of those they had lost.

He was fairly certain that Thomas wouldn't do something like try and take revenge, and Arslan had decided that he himself wouldn't; they were professionals, although he would admit that he hadn't always been so. But would they be able to work together with the sort of coordination that made the whole greater than the sum of its parts, like Eugene of Savoy and the Duke of Marlborough, or the Barbarossa brothers? Such teams were rare, he knew, but that could mean the difference between victory and defeat, or stalemate, and the latter two were nearly indistinguishable for this war. It wasn't quite as bad as it could have been—at the very least, he thought, they could avoid the squabbling that had nearly taken the GLA apart in Deathstrike's day.

The vehicle came to a smooth halt, nearly simultaneous to Thomas's Humvee stopping, in a move too neat to be choreographed.

He smiled thinly. If their drivers were of such similar minds, perhaps there was hope after all. His bodyguards were the first to climb out, as Thomas's were, the two groups both sweeping for hidden threats and keeping half an eye on the other, like two packs of wolves that had come together to bring down a particularly troublesome ram.

Finally, the leaders each signaled, and both men climbed out at precisely the same time.

He took a moment to size up his ally as they walked towards each other. He was reasonably trim, though the wear on his face and the grey in his hair said he was middle-aged, and certainly had the bearing of a professional soldier who had made it his profession for a very long time, and was good at it. But there was something about him that said that he would be happy to lay down the burden he carried when it was his time to, which Arslan understood completely. After all, he wished the same.

"General Thomas," he said, in somewhat accented English, as he extended his hand. "I am glad to meet you."

"Likewise," the American replied, as he took and shook Arslan's hand. "I must confess that I was rather surprised when you asked for this meeting. Although it was not unwelcome. I have always preferred to meet my colleagues face-to-face."

That was a good sign.

"Indeed. I thought that, now that there was a pause in operations, we might be able to confer."

Thomas nodded. The operational tempo that the allied forces had been maintaining was unsustainable for very long, and it would take some time for them to recover—days at least, and it would only be that short a time thanks to careful husbanding of resources.

This did leave the Israelis and Kurds stuck on a limb, but Arslan would shed no tears one way or another on that score. Besides, all indications were that the Chinese weren't going to be able to move any forces in that direction before the next phase of the attack.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Mostly what each of us can expect from the other," Arslan said bluntly. It went against his upbringing to discuss business so quickly, but he understood that the American would prefer it that way. Besides, in his private moments he would admit that he occasionally found the circuitous formalities of his people…wearing.

"We do need to discuss that," Thomas replied, apparently somewhat bemused by his abruptness. "Much of the ELA's remaining strength will not be available for further attacks, from what I remember."

Arslan nodded. "Correct. I have perhaps a division's worth of troops available to me immediately, and can gather in another division within a week. But yes, most of the soldiers I command will not go beyond the borders of their home regions, much less their countries.

He shrugged. " _In sh'allah._ Besides, they did work enough before the invasion."

Thomas nodded. "They would take high casualties for little gain in the type of fighting that we'll be engaging in now. It'll be mechanized warfare, now, with guerrillas more valuable for intelligence than anything else."

As much as it pained Arslan to admit it, Thomas was right. When the armored hammer had time enough to settle on a target, the only things guerrillas could do were run or pray for reinforcements—as had been proven all over southeastern Europe.

"Speaking of which," Thomas continued, "I've heard that the Chinese are running into difficulties trying to move troops from China to where they can attack the cordon in Syria. I'll admit to being somewhat surprised."

Arslan smiled thinly. "You remember that the GLA splintered after Dr. Thrax's death, and then again after the Chinese killed Deathstrike?"

"Yes."

"When we overran Prince Kassad's forces in Egypt, we never did find his body. Mohmar thought him dead, but I knew that with a man like him, you never rely on him only being last seen inside the building you blew up, you only count him dead when you find what you know is his body. General Juhziz…well, he signed on with Deathstrike quick enough, but after his death, he set off for Central Asia to try and revive the GLA, while I set up the ELA. Cursed me for an infidel-loving traitor while he was at it."

He shrugged. "I was right about Kassad—he retreated to the Arabian Peninsula, where he set to spreading his influence into southern Iran and Pakistan."

Thomas nodded. When the US had invaded Iran during the GLA war, it had toppled the ayatollahs, but had retreated to defend the homeland before it had a chance to really establish any sort of successor government. The result had been chaos, as the Kurds, Azeris, and Baluchis had broken off, while surviving IGRC and army commanders set themselves up as warlords, then set to squabbling over the pickings, while the Chinese set up a figurehead government in Tehran.

"Meanwhile," Arslan continued, "Juhziz moved into Central Asia, using Chechen fighters and his bomb experts to establish himself there and in northern Iran. Those two had been fighting each other more than the Chinese, but now…I expect the Chinese will be quite busy."

* * *

Kasym Datka had never been happier in his entire life. Not only was he getting to play with explosives, but he was getting to use them against the infidel Chinese, and he was getting to do it in a way that would be utterly spectacular.

It wasn't his finest work, he'd admit—much more brute force than careful placement—but it would get the job done, and besides, there was always something _satisfying_ about a very large explosion.

He'd heard about what was happening in Europe, but he didn't much care. What he cared about was that General Juhziz had sent out the order to blow every railroad bridge between Urumqi and Tehran, or so their cell leader had said.

Well, what he really cared about was that they'd been assigned to blow up a bridge that he'd had his eye on for years, ever since he'd first discovered that he had a knack for making things that exploded.

"Are you sure this'll work?" the cell leader asked.

Datka sighed. Abdylas Bakiyev's constant concern that things might go wrong had kept their cell alive when many others had been swept up by the Chinese, but when on operations his fretting quickly became annoying.

"Yes, I'm sure," he replied, as he looked over the setup in front of him for what had to be the tenth or eleventh time. "There are four separate sets, each with its own detonator, and any two of them will put the bridge out of commission for weeks. Any three," he felt himself break into a smile, "and the whole thing comes crashing down."

"Good. Now let's go, the train's going to be here any minute now," Bakiyev said as he started moving towards the hide.

Datka followed, not sure what he thought about this part of the plan. Bakiyev wanted to take down the bridge while the train was on it, to try and strike at the Chinese even more. Datka was not opposed to the idea—for one thing, it would add to the destruction, and killing more Chinese was always good—but he wasn't sure if it might mess with the explosives somehow. The last thing they wanted was for the bridge to not fall.

Ah well. He'd taken extra care with the detonators, and he was usually quite careful to begin with.

As they waited in the hide, Datka wondered what kind of train would be the one they blew the bridge under. A small cargo train would be alright, but he really wanted either a troop train or one carrying a lot of heavy vehicles.

When he heard the sound of a train coming, he listened carefully. He wasn't worried about it being a civilian train—Chinese ones were the only ones allowed on the rails after dark. He smiled when it finally came into view and it became obvious that it was a long one, loaded with Nuke Cannons and Overlords, headed for Europe.

Well, not now, he thought as the engine reached the center of the span and he activated the explosives.

The resulting fireballs were extremely exciting, but for a moment, as the train kept going, he thought that maybe the unthinkable had happened and he hadn't placed enough. But then the bridge began to fall, taking the train with it, and his smile broadened into a grin.

Which was still there when a badly-made reactor went supercritical on impact and exploded, the equivalent of 5 kilotons of TNT.

The only survivor of Datka's cell was one of the lookouts.

* * *

Captain Rafael Torrijos cursed and ducked as the Venezuelan Gatling Cannon spit fire in his direction yet again. His company was stopped dead in its tracks by the thing, and there wasn't any way around it.

He looked around for his radioman, and found him hiding behind another rock.

"Call battalion and tell them we're stuck here unless they can get us some armor or artillery support," he snarled at the hapless corporal. He never had been able to stop coveting the Americans' equipment, both quality and quantity—the best thing the Colombian army had was the export model of the Crusader tank, which didn't have drone capability, and they didn't have many of those. In fact, they didn't have many Scorpions or Rocket Buggies.

The only salvageable thing about it was that the Chinese hadn't equipped the Venezuelans particularly well either. He wasn't sure why they hadn't, given that the airbase they'd acquired there had been to try and interdict the Panama Canal, but that was so. It might have had something to do with the fact that the Venezuelans were mostly incompetent.

Which was why he and his men were here in Los Teques, less than thirty kilometers from Caracas.

"Sir!" The radioman yelled. "The major wants to talk to you!"

Torrijos cursed. Major Jose Bolivar wasn't a bad commander, but he had a tendency to discount reports if they didn't come directly from the officer they were from. He checked to make sure that the Gatling wasn't pointed his way, then ran over to where the radioman was crouching and put the headset to his ear.

"What are you playing at, Torrijos?"

"There's a Gatling Cannon covering this sector," he snapped. "Whoever's in command on the other side seems to be competent. They've cleared out any cover that's within range of the thing. Either you get me some support, you get a reserve company to take over for mine after I lose half my men, or you find some other route."

Bolivar cursed. "Looks like you've run into their Presidential Guard too. Cardones reported something similar a minute ago, and he managed to take one of their outposts. The prisoners all had the proper insignia."

Torrijos whistled. If the Chavistas were deploying that force this far forward, they were desperate.

"They're trying to keep us from taking Los Teques," Bolivar continued. "Our intelligence reports say there's nothing between there and Caracas." That didn't surprise Torrijos at all. "If we can take the city, we'll have two roads to attack down. I'll see about getting you some support, but you need to keep the pressure on. Keep them fixed there."

"Yes sir," Torrijos replied, but the major had already disconnected. He could live with that, since he needed to tell the lieutenants not to attack. Garcia wouldn't need that reminder, but Hernandez and Sanchez certainly would.

It took some doing, but soon his men had settled into an intense long-range firefight, one that they would probably lose if left here due to the Gatling Cannon that was chewing up the landscape, but more slowly than if he ordered some kind of charge.

He heard the sound of tanks moving forward much more quickly than he expected, which made him worry that the Venezuelans had hooked armor around their flank. However, when he looked behind and saw a Crusader leading three Scorpions, he knew the armor was friendly. That opinion was only confirmed when he saw them start to fire at the turret in front of them, which blew apart quickly, while the Venezuelans fired anti-tank missiles that didn't reach their targets.

At that point, it became just a matter of time until they pried the enemy out of his positions, which they did rather quickly, particularly with tanks to fire into stubborn strongpoints.

By the time Bolivar called, an hour later, to ask if things were going according to plan, Torrijos' men had cleared the area, though they'd taken casualties in the process.

By the time night fell, three hours later, they were on the outskirts of Caracas, along with the rest of the brigade.

By the end of the next day, the Colombian flag flew over the city, and those members of the regime who hadn't died in the fighting or committed suicide were attempting to negotiate a deal. Torrijos didn't know about that, however. He, along with those of his men who were left, were sleeping in the Miraflores Palace, and while he himself didn't claim the Presidential bedroom, he did manage to snag one of the better ones.

* * *

Captain Arthur Carruthers was an anxious man. It had nothing to do with his ship, fortunately—he was as content with the state of HMAS _Perth_ as he'd ever been.

No, it had to do with the state of uncertainty he was in. His ship had received orders to go to the Singaporean end of the Strait of Malacca and sit in international waters, where its radar could track any ships that passed between Borneo and Java.

It was patently obvious that this move was directed at the Chinese, most of whose commerce ran through the area, but he had so far received no orders about what he was supposed to _do_ besides just sit.

He knew why—Australia, while it had longstanding cultural, political, and military ties to the United States, had also developed extremely close commercial ties with China, as the mammoth economic engine of the PRC needed Australian minerals to function. While Canberra wasn't enthused at the prospect of China dominating the globe, it also wasn't enthused about going to war with one of Australia's biggest customers.

And of course, they were still dithering about trying to decide whether or not to openly join the fighting, which was why he and his ship were out here, circling around in international waters. It also didn't help that the New Zealanders seemed to be dithering as well.

He hoped they'd make a decision soon, before the Chinese made it for them.

"Radio to bridge, radio to bridge, come in bridge."

Carruthers keyed on his microphone. "This is the captain."

"Message from Fleet, sir. Initiate Case Purple. Immediately."

Carruthers felt the burden of uncertainty slide away while the burden of command took on a crushing weight as he turned on the ship's intercom system.

"All hands," he announced, "Australia has joined the war against China. Our task will be to keep any Chinese ships from coming through the straits of Malacca. Do your jobs, stay sharp, and we'll all get home."

There was no cheering, as he'd expected. Blockade duty was even worse drudgery than normal naval operations, but could become all too exciting very quickly, especially if the Chinese had some of their diesel subs in the area.

But at least his government knew what kind of world would let Australia thrive, and not exist as a mere tribute state.

* * *

Major James Kenyatta looked carefully at the terrain in front of him. He'd been surprised when Kenya signed on to the League of Free Nations, as most of his countrymen would have been if they knew about it. Colonization's memories ran deep, and while Britain had probably been the least bad option out of the potential colonizers, it still hadn't been pleasant for his people.

However, the power that presented the greatest threat to Kenya's status as a sovereign nation wasn't English-speaking, and the people financing the terrorists that made living in the northern regions a chancy business weren't either.

They spoke Chinese and Arabic, respectively, and he'd been pleasantly surprised by the news, unlike some others, who muttered darkly about conditionality and the IMF. That rankled him too, but at least the Americans weren't acquiring 99-year leases on prime farmland and shipping all it produced out of the country, or arming people who killed his fellow countrymen.

Besides, he thought as he patted the flashbang grenade launcher on his rifle, they had the best tools for an infantryman. Although he would grant that there was something about taking a group of Technicals and barreling them straight into a training camp, spitting fire in all directions.

This, however, would require a bit more finesse, and he was glad that he had been training the men under his command for the past several years. It had taken him a long time, but this battalion was free of the tribal politics that frequently hampered the army's operations. His men were pure professionals.

Which was why they had been assigned to this operation. The Chinese had established a base in Mogadishu after the American drawdown, supposedly to deal with fragments of the GLA that were still creating trouble in the area. Why this required facilities for sixteen MiGs, of course, was a mystery for the ages.

What the base had the potential to do, however, was create a humanitarian catastrophe. The Ethiopian Renaissance Dam was vulnerable to air attack, and the Chinese had shown themselves willing to unleash the waters on their own people. Why would they shy away from doing it to others?

Kenyatta, truthfully, couldn't care less about the people downstream from the dam. The Sudanese were arrogant twits, in his experience. But if the Chinese did manage to blow the dam, effort would almost have to be diverted from the war to provide relief to the millions left homeless and injured by the flood, and deal with the consequences to Ethiopia's infrastructure of losing billions of watts of electrical power at a stroke.

Or so it had been explained to him, anyway.

It didn't matter. What mattered was that he was about to test his men and himself against their toughest opponent yet, and he was looking forward to showing the Chinese—and the Americans—what well-trained and well-led Africans could do.

Starting…now, as the Rocket Buggy launchers they'd spent the past week infiltrating into the nearby apartment building disguised as replacement pipes for the failing plumbing system—and they really would need to do something about that in compensation—began to fire.

They'd been laid in well—every single one was hitting the power source for the Gatling Turrets.

He would have preferred to send his men only after the turrets were turned into paperweights, but that would give the garrison too much time to get themselves together.

"Alpha Group, move!" he yelled into his radio, and his men came out of the buildings they'd been hiding in and charged for the gates.

He hated that he couldn't be down there with them, but he needed to coordinate the attack.

The Gatling Turrets began to fire, then stopped as their power source blew up. Chinese soldiers were rushing out of the barracks and running towards the motor pool and the Bunkers that covered the gates.

Why they hadn't been on high alert, given recent events, was a mystery to him, but he supposed that whoever was in charge of the base hadn't been expecting an attack. After all, there were no American forces in the area, and the Chinese thought even less of Africans, particularly African soldiers, than the Americans did.

His snipers began to cut down the infantry running towards the main gate as his combat engineers raced to plant their explosive charges on the Gatling Turrets. Even if they'd been caught napping, it wouldn't take them long to redirect power to the base defenses.

Just as they slid in to plant the charges, the Gatlings powered up again.

Kenyatta began to curse as they opened fire and his men were either cut down or desperately went for the ground, trying to find what cover they could. The Chinese were already starting to rev up their vehicles. If they managed…

The Gatlings blew up, and he knew that he would be writing some recommendations for posthumous awards of the Golden Heart of Kenya.

The survivors of the assault force came to their feet and ran forward again, determined to get to their assigned positions before anything _else_ had time to go wrong. Just as the first Battlemaster started moving towards the gate, his men broke into the first Bunker.

He sighed in relief as more of his men swarmed into the Bunkers, both denying them to the Chinese infantry who were coming out in large enough numbers that the snipers couldn't shoot them all and setting themselves up to hold against the inevitable counterattack.

Which would be coming…now.

The Chinese tanks moved forward, slowly, with infantry behind them, and he frowned for a moment. Why weren't they attacking quickly, before his men had a chance to consolidate?

Then he looked at the Chinese hangers, and understood when he saw that the MiGs were being fueled and armed. The ground troops would keep the attackers pinned in place until the aircraft could firestorm them. That wouldn't do much for the defenses, but the commander probably rightfully believed that if such a thing happened no one would be brave enough to try again, at least not for long enough that he could rebuild the defenses.

Unfortunately…

"Bravo! Charlie! _Move!_ "

He wasn't going to be riding a Technical into battle. His men, on the other hand, who had disguised themselves as the militias the Chinese had failed to clear out?

They were turning their vehicles and driving as fast as they could towards the chain-link fences that were now the only barriers between them and the Chinese aircraft. While the garrison could turn itself around and stop them, their chances of stopping his men before they took out half the aircraft were minimal.

And from what he could see, the Chinese were so focused on the troops at the gates that they hadn't even noticed the attack coming into their rear.

The Technicals crashed through the fences, screeched to a halt, and opened fire on the airfields, and the aircraft that were being rearmed and refueled.

The first explosion occurred less than five seconds later, followed by another, probably independent, one, and then a chain reaction that consumed nearly all of the MiGs.

The Chinese troops, seeing their reason for being here go up in smoke, began to drop their weapons and come out of their tanks.

Kenyatta smiled.

* * *

Wu Tsien looked at the report Lin had brought him and felt something that he'd never felt before.

Despair.

The People's Liberation Army had deployed twenty divisions or divisional equivalents to the Occupied Zone. Of those twenty, seven divisional equivalents remained, only five of which were fit for more than rear area security, and even those five had taken heavy casualties—only one of his divisions was fit for offensive operations, and he would need it if the Americans attacked again.

That left thirty divisions or divisional equivalents that could, _theoretically,_ be used to reinforce and relieve the Occupied Zone. Practically speaking, however, the number of available units was considerably smaller. Two divisions were needed to hold and control Taiwan. Four were needed for the southern border, to deter India and Vietnam. Two for the border with the ROK. Six for the border with Russia. One to occupy Tibet. One to occupy Xinjiang. Three to keep the rail lines open between Xinjiang and Baghdad, where Leang had ordered the base for the counterattack to be. Six to hold the coast and make sure the Americans and Japanese didn't get any ideas about an amphibious landing.

That left five divisions available, although he was fairly certain that some clever deployments could free up two or three more, although the Politburo wouldn't let that happen. Those five divisions had started moving quickly—unfortunately, once they left China, they were moving at a crawl. Rail bridges were being blown up with trains still on them, landslides covered tunnels and rails, and repairmen were sniped at. The lead elements of the first division had just reached Tehran, while the last two divisions were still in Xinjiang.

The numbers for the Americans and their allies, of course, were more doubtful. However, the estimate was that the League and the ELA had thrown twenty-six divisions or divisional equivalents into the fight. Of those, fifteen had been local guerrilla forces, two were ELA conventional units, eight were American, and one was British. Only ten of those would be available for further attacks—the local guerrilla forces were spent, and ill-equipped for conventional battle, and some American units had taken heavy losses—but the odds were not in the PLA's favor.

That didn't count the Israeli and Kurdish forces astride the roads back to China, estimated at four division equivalents, or the other countries who might be willing to attack if they thought the odds were right.

It also didn't count the GLA remnants that might or might not be gathering, masked under the sabotage campaign that holding up the reinforcements. The intelligence reports thought them to be phantoms and dismissed them, which he thought was unwise. The last thing China needed was to have five more mobile divisions cut off and stranded without supplies, in addition to the garrison soldiers. If that happened, the consequences could be catastrophic, which was why he hoped that, behind the scenes, the PLA's intelligence service was investigating the rumors more thoroughly than the reports indicated.

Right now, however, he needed to look at his deployments again. General Tsing, fortunately, was so focused on defending Vienna that he was leaving him alone. One of the functional divisions was tied down there, along with a divisional equivalent made up of the survivors from the troops stationed in Northern Europe. One of his divisions, and the survivors from the troops stationed in Southern Europe, held the former Yugoslav countries and Greece. Another division held Istanbul and parts of Anatolia. Two more were holding the northern borders of Romania and Hungary. And his reserve division, the one fit to attack, was parked near Timisoara, ready to move against any looming breakthrough.

They couldn't hold these lines for long. His men were dug in only on the highways, with only scouting elements on the smaller roads. At that, they were far too scattered—there were nearly a dozen places on the Romanian border alone where the Americans could get a brigade through in less than an hour.

What he needed was permission to withdraw to a more defensible line. If he could set up in Bulgaria and Greece, he was fairly confident that he could hold for at least a month or two against anything the Americans could throw at him. However, General Tsing had expressly forbade him from pulling his troops back unless they were immediately threatened with annihilation.

He suspected that General Leang had something to do with that, but also that Tsing hadn't needed much persuading. The man was obsessed with holding Vienna—or, more accurately, the massive reactor farm he'd set up there. Which Tsien could understand, but the other general's determination to hold on to the place meant that they would almost certainly lose not only Vienna, but also troops and equipment that China would need in the coming months and years.

Because while it was unlikely that the League would attempt a serious invasion, the domestic consequences of losing this war would make Tiananmen look like a tea ceremony.

At least Black Lotus was still alive. That was something.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey y'all, sorry about the delay. I just started a new job and moved to a new state, so settling in has been...interesting. But, I have settled in now, and should be able to maintain the schedule. And now, back to our regular programming.**

Colonel Reza Khamenei, one of the highest-ranking survivors of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps, was not pleased with his new allies. First, they were Arabs, mainly, and he was a good Persian. Second, they were all Sunnis, and he was a good Shi'ite. Third, he needed them more than they needed him, although he planned for that to change in the very near future. Fourth, they were the reason his country was in the mess that it was in.

Despite all their other disagreements (which, admittedly, mostly were about who should be in charge of the country once they put it back together), his fellow warlords agreed on those things. They also agreed with him that the _last_ thing they wanted was for the Chinese to run reinforcements to the Occupied Zone through northern Iran. If the Chinese managed to halt the League, they would take the opportunity to help their puppets in Tehran expand their effective control. If the League defeated the Chinese, however, and pushed east, they would take the opportunity to install _their_ puppet regime in Tehran.

Their only chance to bring back the Islamic Republic was to push the Chinese out themselves.

Even if it meant working—for now—with the GLA.

Even if it meant working with Prince Kassad.

Yes, the man was brilliant. Yes, he had managed to hold on to more of his old contacts than anyone would have believed possible. Yes, the supplies he brought had been the tipping point to get the remnants of the IRGC to work together instead of squabbling.

But the man was utterly insufferable. As he was proving now.

"I do _not_ understand why you haven't moved to stop the Chinese yet."

"Because," he said flatly, "what we want is for the Chinese to be willing to drop all support for the collaborationists in Tehran in return for our letting their troops return home. The fewer of their troops that are able to retreat into Turkmenistan, the better."

Kassad had different objectives than they did, of course. He was worried about what would happen to his dreams of controlling the GLA if Juhziz was able to establish himself in Central Asia without Chinese interference, which would counterbalance Kassad's control of the Arabian peninsula and the Horn of Africa.

Khamanei was just fine with the idea of Kassad and Juhziz being equally powerful. It would be that much easier to play one against the other if that was the case, which would make putting Iran in its rightful place as the most powerful state in the region much more likely.

"Which is why," he continued, "it is unfortunate that our influence only reaches as far north as Qom. If we were to strike now, at least two divisions would remain to the Chinese infidels—and there would be few trapped Chinese troops to trade."

Before Kassad could object, Khamenei continued on. "Waiting will make you the man who not only defeated the Chinese, but humiliated them by forcing them to negotiate with your faction of the GLA. If that happens, Juhziz will be bound to try the same when the Chinese try to return home across Central Asia. And he will not have us to aid him."

That, of course, was only true as long as the Chinese did not attempt to leave by way of Pakistan. Given how bad the infrastructure was in the areas they would have to cross to get to China by way of that route, however, it was a near-certainty that they would choose to go across the steppes. And while there were IRGC men helping Juhziz in the north, there were not many of them, and they could easily melt away into the mountains if they wanted to.

"That's so," Kassad agreed. "And the more troops are caught in the trap, the more equipment there will be for us."

That would also be part of the ransom demand—the Chinese would leave behind much of their heavy equipment, which would then be split between the IRGC and Kassad.

Of course, he and his colleagues intended to make sure that Kassad's share had a few surprises in it, just as they were certain that Kassad would attempt the same.

"So you agree that we should delay?"

Kassad sighed theatrically. "Yes, I suppose so. Two more days. No more."

Khamanei looked around the room to gauge his fellows' reactions, purely to give the prince the idea that his leadership was shakier than he would like. As he expected, none of them raised an objection. "Agreed."

* * *

Captain Luo Yu coughed and spat, trying to get some of the dust out of his throat. As the brown gobbet hit the ground, however, the wind gusted just as he inhaled, restoring his previous dust levels.

He sighed wearily and turned around, tired of looking at the back end of a Battlemaster. At least this way he could look at the front end of another Overlord for a little while.

He sighed. Nothing had gone right since the Americans and their allies launched their attack on the Occupied Zone. His division had not received mobilization orders until the second day; movement orders had come in the day after, and had been changed the day after that, which had resulted in all kinds of problems as units found themselves in the wrong places and trying to load on the same traincars.

Then, once everything had been untangled, things had gone reasonably well until they had to debark from the trains a few miles past the old Chinese border. After that, they'd had to make their way across secondary roads, often times over bridges that creaked ominously whenever one of the tractor-trailers carrying an Overlord crossed it. From he could gather, the railroads had been rendered unusable by the time the first two divisions were through, the primary roads about halfway through the fourth division. The only good thing was that the GLA remnants were largely spent by the time he and his men came through.

All of that had changed, however, once they got into Iran. Engineers had kept the primary roads repaired, and there had been very few attacks. No one was sure why, but no one was going to question it. He'd been worried about what might happen while they passed through Tehran, the capital of the Chinese-backed government. Fortunately, all the locals had done was look at the passing tanks sullenly. That wasn't as it should be, but he could live with it. The barbarians needed to learn their place, and shifting them from "active resistance" to "grudging acceptance" was a significant step on the journey

But now they were well on their way to Hamedan, and once they made it through there, they would be in the Zagros. And once they made it through the Zagros, they would be in Iraq. And once they were in Iraq, they could blow through the Kurds and Israelis like so much kindling.

Or, would, if the supplies kept up.

After that, he didn't know what they would do, although he didn't want to try and attack Anatolia, but that was above his pay grade. His job was to make sure that his company did its job and got through in one piece.

He noticed something move out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see what it was. He couldn't see anything, but there was a hole in the ground where he didn't remember seeing one before.

He frowned. Something about this wasn't quite right, but he didn't want to halt the march just because he hadn't previously noticed something that had always been there…

An Overlord cannon fired behind him, and he whipped his head around just in time to see the tank immediately to his rear slew to the side and off the road as the one behind it fired its second cannon. That round blew the Overlord apart, and he realized what had happened.

"Hijackers!" he yelled, and dropped down into the turret, closing the hatch behind him.

Not a moment too soon—a second later, he heard the sound of someone struggling to get onto his vehicle.

"Sergeant! Get the turret turned around, we're about to be hit from behind! Corporal, turn the tank around! To the left, both of you!" he added, knowing that seconds counted now. He then turned on his radio and set it to transmit to anyone in range. "Hijackers have taken over some of our vehicles! Plan Concealing Snow! All units, acknowledge!"

Concealing Snow was a relatively simple scheme—every tank that was still operable would converge to the left of the column, laager up while they sorted out the situation, and then wreck any GLA forces in the area.

As the surviving Overlords checked in, he realized that neither his tank nor the one that had been hijacked had fired. Why?

"Firing!" he heard Sergeant Zhong yell, and he felt the tank rock to the side, then rock again as he fired the second cannon. He looked to the periscope to see if they'd killed the hijacked tank, but when he looked through it there was something covering the thing.

"Did you kill it?" he asked, doubting that they had but wanting to be sure.

"No sir," the gunner replied, "But I think the turret's disabled…one of the others just put two rounds into their engine, sir! They're going up!"

That was good. "Reload and stay alert. We don't know what else is out there."

There was precious little, as it happened—only a lonely Technical, which failed to make its escape before it went the way of all things. Once that was done, he ordered the driver to turn and drive in reverse, while he tried to determine which way they should go back into the fight.

He'd known how many of his tanks were left, but it still shook him a little when he saw only three Overlords moving in the same direction that he was. He didn't know if it would be enough, but they couldn't just run. For one thing, they'd run out of fuel long before they reached Tehran—and if the locals were willing to do something like this, he and his men didn't have a chance of making there on foot.

He still hadn't received any orders from Major Bei, which was concerning, but he knew what he had to do—save the supplies, if they were still there to be saved. He looked in the direction they'd been traveling, hoping that the brigade in front of them had managed to protect theirs, as it was closer than his own brigade's trucks.

The massive column of smoke in that direction dashed that hope, so he turned to look towards where his brigade's trucks were. While there were smoke columns, they were not the kind that came from a massive diesel fire.

"Line formation, follow me," he ordered, and they went straight back in, broadcasting in Chinese on all frequencies, hoping that they wouldn't be fired on by their own men.

Also, his Overlord had a Propaganda Tower, and two of the others had Gatling Turrets. That would help. The Bunker on the fourth Overlord—hopefully some Red Guards or Tank Hunters were still alive.

Unsurprisingly, they had to fight their way there, though they gained reinforcements as Chinese survivors attached themselves to his unit, as it seemed like it knew where it was going. Also unsurprisingly, given how confused things were, they were almost never in any sort of real danger. A Rocket Buggy here, a Technical there, a group of Rebels somewhere else, two hijacked Battlemasters—the only time they really had a potential problem was when they ran into a hijacked Overlord, and they were able to take it out relatively quickly.

Just after that, he finally received a transmission from higher.

"Captain Luo," General Li, the commander of the brigade, said, "how many men do you have with you? Your force is not far from mine."

"I have four Overlords, sir. As to the rest, perhaps a company's worth?"

"Excellent news. Meet me at my headquarters, we have much to discuss."

"General? I do not understand."

"You are in command of your battalion, Captain."

It was as he'd feared.

When he arrived at the headquarters—after incorporating his men into the existing perimeter—he discovered that it was worse.

"It was a general attack," Li said heavily. "Stretching from five kilometers before the border with Iraq, all the way back to the rearguard of our division—and we were the last." He looked around. "The two divisions already in Iraq were untouched, and those units who managed to flee there were not pursued beyond the border.

The other two divisions have taken extremely heavy losses, including almost all of their supply trains, and have effectively ceased to exist as organized units. As to our division," he sighed heavily, "The rearguard brigade, the one behind us, was warier than we, and managed to beat off the attack with few losses. Our losses, while significant, do not render us combat ineffective. The lead brigade, however, is trapped."

"What are our orders, General?"

"General Song," the division commander, "has ordered us to link up with the lead brigade. Once we do that," Li sighed, "we retreat to Tehran."

* * *

General Ranjit Chamnadgar was growing impatient, as were his men. It was long past time that India paid back China for 1962, they were poised to do so, and his superiors _would not give the order!_

It would have seemed strange to Jawaharlal Nehru, he thought wryly, that India, a non-Western nation would ally with the West against another non-Western nation. The fact was, however, that India had not welcomed the rise of China—they shared a long if difficult to access land border, the Chinese claimed portions of Indian territory, and they were allies with Pakistan. The Americans, despite _their_ long association with Islamabad, were preferable.

Even so, India had also rebuffed the League when they had approached them. The dragon was fearsome, and the last thing New Delhi wanted was to end up on the losing side of a war against it—especially since China had always seen it and Japan as potential rivals for hegemony.

The liberation of Europe, however, had gone far better for the League than anyone had expected. Then the Russians had stepped in.

India had developed ties with Moscow during the Cold War, and had maintained them even after the breakup of the Soviet Union, so when the Russian ambassador proposed that the two countries come together and give China the final push over the edge, Chamnadgar's superiors had listened.

The plan had been to attack once the Chinese had committed their reserve divisions to extricate their forces trapped in Europe. Now, with a resurgent GLA having cut that force apart in Iran, his government was dithering over whether to move up the timeline or not.

He wasn't sure if the Russians were ready to go or not—what he knew was that _his_ troops were ready to go, and every day they spent in their positions was a day for the Chinese or Pakistanis to find them.

And, truthfully, he thought they could go ahead without the Russians—they were a power in decline, a process which had only accelerated when the Americans had developed Cold Fusion and fracking within the same decade, sending oil prices plunging like the Nohkalikai Falls. But the old men in New Delhi still thought like it was the 1980s, when India was the junior partner, technologically and economically backwards compared to the Soviet Union.

Yes, there were parts of his country that were still in the 15th century. But there was so much more, now.

And Ranjit Chamnadgar wanted to show the world what his country could do.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Initiate Case Bangalore," he heard.

He smiled as he put the phone down. Now they'd get the chance, and his division would be in the lead.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Josiah Reynolds was not a happy man. First, he'd liked Owen Petrovich, and the news that he was going to be medically retired once he was out of the hospital and rehab was saddening. Second, he missed having two companies of ELA troops attached to his battalion, instead of just one. Third, the timetable for the attack had just been moved up by a day, and it had thrown his planning off.

He was, however, at least not in one of the units that would actually be attacking Vienna. His battalion's job was to push south over the Slovakian border, take Gyor, and then dig in and wait for the inevitable counterattack to relieve Vienna.

He looked through his binoculars again. It didn't look like there was much here, which wasn't surprising—from all accounts the Chinese were spread thin. Still, a company of infantry, bunkered up with Gatling Turrets and armor in support, was not something to be taken lightly. Especially when they had set up for an all-round defense, while also effectively covering the road. Whoever the commander over there was, he was no fool.

That, however, was _all_ that stood between his battalion and Gyor, and Gyor itself was only occupied by a battalion headquarters.

The main question was how many losses they would take. The companies under his command were all up to strength—in fact, the ELA contingent, commanded by Seydlitz, was slightly oversized. However, his replacements hadn't quite settled in yet, as the last ones had only arrived the previous afternoon, and Seydlitz's company was an amalgamation, volunteers from the two companies that had been attached to him.

The 3/69 was no longer as finely-tuned as it had been. Fortunately, it didn't have to be. Not for this.

And…

Now.

One of the difficulties with setting up all-round defenses was that terrain tended not to be neat and tidy, which meant that sometimes, if you wanted to fulfill your objective, you had to accept certain compromises. In this case, several of the bunkers were located where well-positioned tanks could fire on them with little fear of effective reprisal once their targets had been destroyed, which would lead to a domino effect as their destruction uncovered their comrades. This did not change his assessment of the Chinese commander—if he hadn't had three days and scout drones to map out the terrain, he would have found it extremely difficult to determine which ones were positioned so.

Four of the sixteen bunkers went up in smoke and flames, and Reynolds nodded as the Humvees and Technicals started moving forward. It would take the Gatling Turrets time to start firing...

Time they didn't have, as the Tomahawks fired from behind the ridgeline to his rear landed on top of them, blowing them to smithereens.

So far, so good. Now where were...Yes, there the Comanches were, a little behind schedule, but he'd built in margin of error. The Chinese armor began to brew up, then.

The tanks were starting to move out of their positions now, providing what cover they could to the advancing infantry vehicles, and he saw three more bunkers fall under the guns. This was the tricky part. If the infantry dismounted too soon, they'd take casualties from the Red Guards, while if they dismounted too late, the Tank Hunters would have a field day blowing them to Hell. Well, at least once they stopped targeting his tanks, and he winced as one of the Crusaders slammed to a halt and started to smoke.

The infantry cut it a little fine, he thought, when they braked less than a hundred yards from the surviving bunkers, but when their carriers started pouring machine gun fire into the bunker slits he understood what Seydlitz and Wadsworth had intended.

That wouldn't keep the Chinese down for long—for one thing, they'd have to reload—but given how shocked they almost certainly still were, it should work for long enough.

One of the further bunkers blew up as the infantry made their way forward, and then the Rangers and Rebels added their fire to that of the machine guns as the Missile Defenders and RPG Troopers set up to fire. A few fell to blind fire poured out of the slits, but not enough to stop the attack, and at that range it was difficult to miss.

Every bunker was hit multiple times, two completely caved in, and the others were half-wrecked at best. Now the infantry went in, clearing them out with flashbang, bayonet and rifle butt as the tanks began to move forward and the Comanches went back to base to reload.

When both captains signaled the all-clear, he looked at his watch again. Fifteen minutes from beginning to end, and the road was clear.

He took a brief moment to check and see that the follow-on elements were coming along. They were, and with that he ordered the battalion to start moving forward—this time with the recon platoon moving in front. Their TOW-armed Humvees, loaded with Missile Defenders and Pathfinders, should be able to clear out anything before Gyor.

And once they had Gyor, it wouldn't be long before any Chinese counterattack would find itself breaking their teeth on Patriot batteries. Now, he was at least reasonably content.

* * *

General Wu felt like someone had punched him in the gut. The League's plan was obvious to anyone but a blind man by now, and they had carried the first part out to near-perfection. The relief force that had been crossing Iran was trapped. The Russians and Indians were moving in a giant pincer movement, and he had little faith in the Pakistanis' capacity to stop the latter. The Chinese forces in Central Asia _might_ have been able to stand off the Russians, if they were concentrated.

However, they were not.

Within his immediate area, the falls of Gyor and Szombathely left _one_ clear road out of Vienna, and the Americans could interdict it practically at will with their aircraft and artillery. The only thing that would result from attempting to supply the two divisions worth of troops in the salient that was about to become a pocket would be dead troops and lost cargo.

"General," Lin said quietly, "General Tsing is on the line for you."

"Put him through," he replied, and as his superior's image came up on the screen he braced himself for the orders that would doom him and his men.

"You were right," was the first thing he heard, and he blinked. "Operational control of all Chinese forces in the Occupied Zone is now given to you, save those designated for the defense of Vienna." Tsing's mouth quirked up. "Aside from some rear-guard units, I have given all the soldiers here orders to move south towards Veszprem. They will move under your command once they cross the M86 highway."

"What about you, General? There is still time—"

Tsing made a chopping motion. "No. Someone needs to make sure that the reactors here are kept safe and running. That someone is me. You need to get everyone out, Wu. That is my last order to you. Get our soldiers back to China, however you can. Good luck."

The connection cut off before he could respond, and Wu sat there for a moment, stunned. He never would have expected Tsing Shi Tao to have it in him to do such a thing—especially attempting to keep him from bearing any responsibility for the inevitable casualties the evacuating troops would suffer.

But now _he_ bore the ultimate responsibility, and there was a lot to do.

"Major Lin."

"Sir!"

"Contact all the division commanders. We will be initiating Plan Huang He-Two. Also, call Black Lotus, and tell her to come up here."

She nodded, and immediately began to make the necessary connections as he considered what his next move would be. The Huang He plans were all focused around withdrawal, and he had, very quietly, told the division commanders to focus on preparing for those. He had also done the same thing with the headquarters staff here, although they wouldn't leave until the last units had made it through Timisoara.

It would probably take close to a week to pull everyone back to the Thessaloniki-Sofia-Varna line, and they'd take some casualties along the way. However, the League would be thrown off balance by the sudden retreat, and would need to spend time moving everything forward for another attack. Also, his defenses would be much thicker along that line than they were on his present one. That, too, would buy him some time.

Time that he needed, because while the ELA hadn't been especially active in Anatolia, he suspected that once they realized that he was planning on evacuating his men through there and blasting a route through the Israeli-Kurdish cordon, they would reveal themselves. Fighting his way through Anatolia would _not_ be easy, although he thought he could do it, but the longer it took the League to realize what was happening, the better.

"You asked for me, General?" a soft contralto asked from behind him, breaking into his thoughts about how he was going to manage the part between Ankara and Gaziantep, and he turned to see that the hacker had already arrived.

"Yes," he said, and gestured to a chair. "Sit, if you would. This will not take long, but I prefer to discuss things sitting down." A polite fiction—he did not want to raise her ire by stating flatly that he didn't want to keep her on her feet any longer than necessary. He'd read the doctors' report about her condition when she made it to Bucharest two days ago.

Physically, she'd been fine, other than a few scrapes and bruises and too little sleep. However, she'd been in a state of mental and emotional exhaustion. She still seemed that way, and he wondered for a moment if the rumors about her and Shin Fai had been true.

* * *

Black Lotus was less exhausted than she looked, as it happened. One of the assets she'd learned to employ was that, when she wasn't actively managing people's perceptions, her appearance usually magnified her emotional state. When she felt good, she looked great, and when she felt bad, she looked miserable.

And she would not attempt to manage Wu, at least not that way. He deserved better than that, especially now.

"As you probably have guessed," he began, "I have been given full command of all forces in the Occupied Zone."

She nodded. Nearly the first thing she'd done after she arrived had been to tap into the communications network, and the first thing she'd done after that had been to set her system up to tell her if either Wu or Tsing called the other. Since such a call had occurred ten minutes ago, the headquarters had taken on an air of "We will not be here long," and Wu was the only general who understood that the Occupied Zone was lost, it had been fairly obvious.

"I intend," he continued, "to get our forces back into contact with the homeland."

It took her some effort to keep her face still. He was proposing to fight his way across Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Central Asia, breaking through at least three different defense lines while fending off attacks from the Americans? If anyone could do it, it would be him, but she wasn't sure if anyone could do it.

"I know it seems mad," he continued, "but if we simply surrender it will destroy the homeland. China must be able to salvage something from this wreck if it is to continue. This cannot be the start of another Century of Humiliation."

That was true.

"Consider the Long March," he continued. "Had Chairman Mao simply surrendered to Chiang Kai-Shek when the Jiangxi Soviet was surrounded, you and I would not be here today. But when he took his people, and marched them around half of China to reach Shaanxi, it gave them the foundation they needed to fight on, and eventually triumph over the corrupt Nationalists." He smiled then. "And my own ambitions are much smaller than his, and my enemies fewer, so I believe I will be able to concentrate on the march itself."

She hoped that the Politburo would see it the same way. She suspected that he was sincere, and that he had no intention of attempting to use this as some kind of springboard into political power. However, she knew that the Chairman had used the march to consolidate his power over the Party and the Red Army, and it would not be unreasonable for the Politburo—or General Leang—to begin drawing the parallels.

If Wu succeeded, he would be the only general to come out of this war with his reputation enhanced. Since he was also the most successful general from the _last_ war, she was going to be spending a lot of her time assuaging their fears, by whatever means necessary.

"Which brings me to what I need from you. This needs to be kept secret for as long as possible. I can't conceal everything from the Americans' satellites and the ELA's spies, but the longer it takes them to realize that we're not just digging in and playing for time, the better. I think you can help with that. What will you need?"

This _would_ be an interesting challenge. And one she would be happy to take on, since it would make not thinking about the general that much easier.


	7. Chapter 7

General George Thomas was of two minds as he watched the Chinese party walk towards where he stood next to his mobile headquarters.

On the one hand, he was pleased that he was accepting the surrender of Vienna from Tsing Shi Tao, and that his men had been able to take control of the reactor farms without any real difficulty. Furthermore, the reports from his troops were that Chinese forces were retreating as fast as they could go, all along the line. Surviving Greek and Croat ELA forces had already taken control of their countries' capitals, American forces were on the outskirts of Budapest, Bucharest and Sarajevo would be liberated in two or three days, and Belgrade within the week.

Unfortunately, there were some things that had not gone quite as planned.

While they had inflicted heavy losses on the Chinese forces retreating from Vienna, the force that he'd really wanted to destroy—the original Vienna garrison, which was largely intact thanks to the fact that Austrian ELA forces had mostly secured the passes into Switzerland—had made it out as a coherent fighting force. All of the troops who had been caught, once his men finally turned the salient into a pocket, had been the ragged survivors of the divisions shattered in the north, effectively useless for anything except holding fixed positions. Meanwhile, the retreating Chinese forces were doing so in good order, had been laying mines faster than his men could clear them behind them as they went, their anti-air was coordinated well enough that hitting them with planes was a chancy business, and they were moving fast enough that hitting them with Particle Cannons wasn't an option.

To make matters worse, based on the preliminary reports from Bulgaria and northeastern Greece, the Chinese were digging in on a much tighter defensive line, one that they could actually feasibly defend with the forces they had available. He outnumbered them enough to where he was reasonably confident that the League could launch a successful attack, but at this point he suspected it would be better to just wait for the Chinese to wither on the vine.

He didn't like killing people, but waiting was just painful—especially because people still died, in little meaningless skirmishes and probes instead of battles that actually decided things.

He frowned. There had been something in that last intelligence report that had bothered him. What was it?

Oh yes. Wu Tsien's reserve division had moved from Timisoara to _Ankara,_ of all places, and had done so within three days, which was speedy enough to be worrisome in and of itself. The intel analysts said it was because the man was worried about losing Anatolia, but he wasn't so sure. Wu had struck him as the sort of fellow who intended to make the enemy react to him, not the other way around.

But what could he possibly be planning? To fight his way out of the multilayered trap he found himself in? His superiors wouldn't let him take that risk.

Would they?

* * *

Major Lin Zhong was somewhat nervous about her assignment.

That was an understatement.

She was _extremely_ nervous about her assignment.

Supposedly, she and the negotiating team she was a part of were in Baku in order to see if they could get the Azeri government to look the other way while the Chinese government sent critical supplies clandestinely through Azeri territory. This cover story had the advantage of being true, so far as it went—if they could get even a few planeloads of certain critical parts to their forces in Anatolia, their chances would improve drastically, or so the general said, and she believed him.

But they were also here to negotiate with the leaders of the Kurds, to see if Chinese forces could gain safe passage through the part of Syria they currently.

Wu had summed it up neatly when he'd briefed the team he was sending. "The Kurds are the weak link in the American blockade. They're good soldiers, and brave, but neither Iran, nor Iraq, nor Turkey actually like them, and they won't want to lose a lot of men and equipment opposing us." He'd smiled wryly. "Now that the Azeris control what used to be northwest Iran and Turkey is effectively defunct, an independent Kurdistan looks a lot more viable, and I think they'll go for it. They don't want to do anything that will decrease their chances."

He'd paused then. "Unfortunately, the Americans are also their main patron, and the Kurds have little reason to love us. So when I say they're the weak link, that's only by comparison to trying the Israelis or the Azeris. They can't stop us, but they might hurt us badly enough that we won't be able to fight our way back home."

Those words echoed in her mind as she and the others left the Azeri president's office. They hadn't been able to offer him much, unfortunately, but he knew that a Russia fully resurgent would be detrimental to his country's sovereignty, and Ambassador Li had been able to play on that in order to persuade him to let the supplies trickle through.

Now, it was time for the difficult part.

The route from the Presidential Building to where they would meet the Kurds involved an underground vehicle transfer, going through the service entrances of a Chinese-owned hotel, where they changed clothes, another underground vehicle transfer, and then going in through the basement door of a small Georgian restaurant, where three mid-ranking Kurdish officials awaited them.

They got straight to the point, barely giving Lin time enough to activate her microphone rig, which connected back to Wu's headquarters.

"Why should we betray the League by letting you through?" the one in the center asked, in English, as that was the only language both parties had in common. The irony was not lost on her, nor on anyone else at the table, she suspected.

Well, perhaps Colonel Zheng. The man was notoriously insensitive to such things.

Li folded his hands. "A reasonable question, if we were asking you to betray the League. We, however, are not asking you to do any such thing."

That caused the Kurds to sit up and take notice. "If you came to discuss terms of surrender, then, we are not the men to ask," the same man said.

Li shook his head. "Again, no. We are not asking you to betray the League by letting us through. We are asking you to fulfill the League's objectives by letting us through."

This was certainly a new approach.

"Explain yourself," the Kurdish—Spokesman? Leader?—requested firmly.

"Is it not the League's objective for all Chinese forces to be out of what it calls the Occupied Zone? Would it not hasten the fulfillment of that objective if we could move from Ar Raqqah to Al Mayadin unopposed?"

That _was_ forthright for a negotiation of this nature. It wasn't as though it was a secret that any Chinese force would have to go along that route if it didn't want to fight the Peshmerga all the way through Iraq and until it reached Iran, and possibly even after that, but still.

The Kurd on the left leaned forward. "We ourselves do not have the authority to decide this matter. Should we step aside, however, what would we gain from this?"

Li inclined his head. "Recognition. As well as the benefits that would accrue to you from not having to face the IRGC-GLA coalition that has arisen in western Iran."

The Kurd grunted in acknowledgement of that, but that did not change his rather skeptical tone when he said, "What of the Iraqis? You have lent them your support."

Li simply looked at the man, who said "Never mind." Zhong wasn't surprised. The only reason the Chinese had provided aid to Baghdad was the Occupied Zone, and the single Iraqi effort to try and break through, in conjunction with some Syrian units who had been cut off from Damascus, had ended with the attackers ten kilometers back from their start lines.

The Kurds would have no difficulty defending themselves against Iraq, and she would not be surprised if the general replaced some of his lost equipment from what the Chinese had supplied to Baghdad.

"Further," Li continued, "we would raise no objections to your…expansion…elsewhere. So long, of course, as it held to the standards of national self-determination."

The Kurds were not particularly interested in any territory that wasn't mostly Kurdish—aside, perhaps, from the oil wells around Mosul—which meant that the condition wouldn't limit them much.

"What do you think your superiors will say to that?" he finished as the Kurds' eyes lit, and Lin suppressed a smile, as she heard Wu chuckle.

* * *

President Michael Harrison had every right to be pleased with himself. Despite having been elected after the GLA attack on the West Coast, with the implied but never outright stated position that he would not involve the United States in foreign wars and focus on "America First," he had not only been able to develop an alliance that could topple China from its newfound perch, but also had been able to convince Congress to declare war on the Chinese—even the attempt on NORAD hadn't been enough by itself to get the supermajority needed.

And right now, everything was quite well. So far, most of the European countries were already working on free and fair elections, the collaborationists weren't being too badly treated, the ELA forces were shifting back into their national armies, except for the ones still pursuing the Chinese through the Balkans, and they were already planning on how to rebuild. Globally, the only Chinese allies left in the fight were Burma, South Africa, and Pakistan—and the Indians were about to finish off the latter. Islamabad's nuclear weapons and material were a concern, though, and he had every asset he could spare trying to keep on top of where it was. The Australian-Indonesian blockade was strangling what was left of China's seaborne trade, and Korea and Japan had both mobilized, although neither had declared war yet. Even so, the potential threat to China's most productive and populous regions meant that they couldn't send any more reinforcements to try and get their people out of the trap they were in.

But now decisions had to be made that would affect what sort of world it would be like after the war was over.

"Let me get this straight. The Chinese want the Kurds to let them through into Iraq so that they can fight their way through Iran, Central Asia, and our Russian and Indian allies in order to get back home?"

"Yes sir. That's about the size of it," National Security Advisor Jim Cook replied. "The Kurds didn't want to tick us off, so they discussed it with our ambassador to the area an hour ago. They've got a Chinese delegation in Baku, waiting on an answer."

"General Thomas," Harrison said, turning to where the League commander in Europe sat in his mobile headquarters, "what are the chances of stopping the Chinese retreat through Turkey?"

Thomas shook his head. "Low, sir. Our air assets are close to the limit, and moving them to within striking range of Turkey will simply take time—a week, at least, and by then we might be able to strike their rear guard. The Israeli air force is still refitting after hammering Syria, and wouldn't be enough in any case. The Russians stripped the Caucasus in order to make their attack into Central Asia. As to the ELA, there's a division's worth of fighters in Turkey, and while they could delay the Chinese advance, they almost certainly couldn't stop it."

"What's your read on how Arslan might take this?"

Thomas shook his head. "I don't know, sir. I think his main objective is to have the Chinese back in China. I'm not sure if how that happens is really that important to him."

"In your opinion, General, could opposing the Chinese retreat into Iraq weaken them enough that they would not be able to make it back to China?"

"Possibly, sir. Too many variables to be certain, and General Wu is tough and smart. If he'd commanded the Occupied Zone, I wouldn't be here in Budapest. If we were lucky, I'd be in Bonn. But the chances go up significantly if he's delayed."

Harrison nodded. "Thank you, general. I won't take more of your time. Harrison out." As the feed cut out, he looked over at his Secretary of State. "Ramifications on your end?"

George Cavender shrugged. "Not too many, one way or another, aside maybe from the Russians and Indians. The question is what will happen in China."

Harrison nodded. _No one_ wanted to actually _invade_ the Chinese homeland. While not doing so might mean having to fight another war in a few years, doing so might also set off a nuclear war. However, what everyone was hoping for was that the PRC might implode from recent events, or at the very least spend a few years chewing its own guts out in a civil war.

"What happens if the Chinese forces are destroyed somewhere in Central Asia?"

"Nationalist uprisings in the west and Taiwan, generalized domestic unrest elsewhere. It'll take them years, maybe decades, to recover."

"And if they manage to make it home?"

"Assuming General Wu survives, he'll be the only person in the Chinese leadership with an enhanced reputation. The Politburo and General Leang will feel threatened by that, and may decide to try and get rid of him permanently. Any survivors of this march are going to be more loyal to him than the Politburo, and the rest of the military will be split. At that point, there's every chance of a civil war between those loyal to him and those loyal to the Politburo, which will also result in nationalist uprisings as rebels try and take advantage of the chaos. It would take them decades to recover from that, for a certainty. But there's no guarantee, sir."

"What are the chances that the Chinese will be able to retaliate against our allies, in a worst-case scenario?"

"Unlikely."

Then Cook spoke again. "There's also the resurgent GLA in Iran and Central Asia to think about. If a beaten, battered Chinese force, retreating from us, manages to fight their way through them, it might finish the GLA off for good."

That clinched it. "George, tell the Kurds they have the green light—but they're not to allow any flights to go westward. Make sure they have that clear. The Chinese go out, they don't come back in." He paused. "But tell them not to make it _too_ obvious."

* * *

Black Lotus was utterly exhausted. She'd been able to set her hackers to keeping the League's cyberwarfare specialists occupied, and they seemed to have done a good job of it—for one thing, the Americans and ELA hadn't even tried to attack the supposed defensive line they were setting up to cover Istanbul, which they would have if they knew there was less than a division's worth of troops holding it. Although, since nearly everyone else was almost through Istanbul already, they might have decided to let the Chinese go.

However, she had assigned only herself to the most dangerous part of the job—keeping this movement from the Chinese government. It hadn't been hard to misdirect the Politburo—they were busy trying to keep a lid on things in the Middle Kingdom itself, and were trying to distance themselves from the utter catastrophe that had unfolded in the Occupied Zone.

General Leang, on the other hand, knew that unless she somehow managed to put the blame on somebody else, the Politburo would sacrifice her first, and she did not have many options. Of the four generals under her command, two had died early in the fighting, and had already been memorialized as martyrs to the People's Republic, one had surrendered but would be very difficult to blame, and one had held his forces together through it all—and as a result, was a potential rival.

Black Lotus felt some sympathy for her position, as Leang had only been doing what the Politburo told her to do, and she knew better than anyone just how hard Leang had had to work to attain her current position. However, it was very obvious that the orders she was handing out were designed to say that _she_ had told Wu to stand fast, but he had disobeyed her in order to save his own skin.

As a result, since she was far more interested in seeing to it that China survived the upcoming unrest than she was in preserving Leang's career, she was busy misdirecting queries, editing files, and making sure that the telephone connections weren't working. If she was ever discovered, "severe" would not even be close to describing the consequences she would experience. She was also busily subverting the command links between Leang's headquarters in Xi'an and the commanders in Iraq—and, to make things more difficult, was making it look like a Russian job.

The only reason she wasn't doing the same thing with her forays into Leang's files was that if Wu succeeded, Leang would want a paper trail that indicated that she had at least not gotten in his way. And if Wu failed—well, she wasn't altogether sure if she would survive that. So she wouldn't have to worry about Leang's retaliation.

* * *

Sergeant Aloysius Germain was slightly grumpy.

It wasn't because he was being deployed to Turkey. He'd always wanted to see Istanbul, after all, and that's where he was.

No, it was because of what he and his buddies would be doing there.

"Why are we the ones providing security?" he asked as they debarked from the plane that had taken them from Rome.

Palmer shrugged. "Maybe they figure the best way to counter a sniper is another sniper. Would you rather be shadowing the Chinese?"

"I would. At least then we'd be doing something. I mean, who's going to try and whack General Thomas? ELA's with us, and last I heard the nearest Chinese are in Ankara. It's a waste of our time."

"Maybe. But there's some GLA still left—you heard about what happened in Eskesehir."

Germain grunted in acknowledgement. Six hours after the Chinese had left the city, the ELA had moved to claim it, only to run into a group trying to raise the GLA's banner again. The fighting was still going on, it was extremely confused, and the ELA was having to pull troops away from watching the Chinese retreat to try and secure the city.

Six hours later, Germain was somewhat happier. He was still thought that his talents would be better used elsewhere, but now that he'd been here for a little while there did seem to be tension in the air, which wasn't what you'd expect from a city that had just been liberated.

He couldn't explain why he thought there was tension, given that he was presently perched in a tower overlooking the Golden Horn. It was probably the fact that, while everyone seemed happy to see them, the smiles looked a little strained. In fact, that had been more and more the case the closer they'd gotten to where they'd be setting up.

He wasn't sure what that was a sign of, but he knew it wasn't good, and the first thing he and Palmer had done when they got up here was look around for all the potential sniper's nests they could see. They'd found more than a dozen, and he was sure they hadn't found them all.

The commander of the security force's voice came through his earpiece. "Chickamauga and Manzikert have arrived. High alert, gentlemen."

Germain knew why Thomas had been assigned the code sign "Chickamauga," but he had no idea why Arslan had been given "Manzikert." Maybe that was also a battle?

It didn't matter, and Germain wiped everything from his mind but searching for potential assassins or other troublemakers.

The only distraction was the progress reports for the motorcade carrying the generals down to the Golden Horn for the photo op. He knew that he needed to get a feel for what should be there before the vehicles got into his sector. Any attack wouldn't have a lot of preparation time-this little jaunt had only been announced to them twelve hours ago, and had only been revealed to the locals six hours ago.

If there were GLA terrorists in the city, they'd be improvising the whole thing, which would mean they'd almost certainly be sloppy. Like...That one.

"Palmer. Man on the corner. Blue burnoose. See anything different?"

There was a pause as his spotter swung his binoculars to look at the man, and then he spoke. "Yeah. He's looking a little too fixedly at the route they'll be coming down. Might have explosives under there, might not. I'll call it in."

"Keep watching him. There's probably more around."

As Palmer called in the potential threat, Germain scanned the area carefully. There didn't seem to be anyone on the rooftops, which surprised him a little. Then something in a window caught his eye, and he zoomed in his scope.

"Sniper in the window. Just moving into position. One block up from the first man."

"Command says they're diverting the motorcade to the alternate route. Reaction teams are moving in now-Germain, the man on the corner's starting to run!"

He moved his rifle quickly, seeing it all in his mind's eye. The terrorist running, either getting caught by the reaction team or reaching his goal, pulling out a rifle or pressing the detonator...

The crosshairs settled on a blue burnoose, running swiftly.

"Do I have the target?"

"Yes."

Germain had one of the fastest reaction times ever recorded in Pathfinder School. It wasn't something he bragged about-fast reflexes were rarely necessary, and a steady hand was much more desirable. But it did mean that by the time Palmer had gotten to the "s" he'd already squeezed the trigger, making sure to lead his target just a little.

The bullet took the man between the shoulder blades, and he pitched forward onto the street. A detonator fell from his hand, and for a moment Germain wondered if the bomb had been set to a dead man's switch before Palmer spoke urgently.

"Sniper going out the window, he's making a run for it!"

Germain flipped the bolt up and yanked it back as he swept back up to cover the street, slamming it back and flipping it down as the cartridge pinged off the tower floor and he settled the crosshairs on the jumping sniper, who landed in a crouch on the pavement, somehow keeping his Dragunov from hitting the ground as well.

He was impressed, but not enough to distract him from his mission.

He fired, and the round blew through the man's right knee and his left calf, turning his attempt to stand up into a topple to the right as the reaction team came into view.

"Stay alert," he heard as the reaction team closed in on the would-be assassin. "There's probably more of them around."

He wondered, for a moment, if the generals would still go through with their plan. Then he set himself to scanning the area again, and breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that he hadn't heard an explosion. That would have been difficult to live with.

* * *

Wu Tsien was tired.

Which was better than being dead, but the retreat through Turkey had been a truly painful exercise. Moving hundreds of thousands of men down one or two roads, neither of which was of exceptional quality, was not an exercise for the faint of heart or body, and he couldn't remember when he'd last gotten more than an hour of sleep at a stretch. He was just glad that the ELA and the League had apparently decided to let them run, only harassing the rearguard and making a few pinprick assaults wherever his men had gotten sloppy.

He'd still taken losses he could ill afford, but things weren't nearly as bad as they could have been. The only question now was what the Kurds and Israelis would do.

Yes, the Kurds had indicated that they wouldn't do more than offer token resistance along his line of march, but they might have been lying, and the IDF could be something of a wild card. However, they detested the GLA as much as he did, and didn't bear the PRC any more animus than they did any of the other countries that had sided constantly with the Palestinians, which included the Europeans.

The GLA's rise had done for that last, though. The West Bank and Gaza Strip had been some of their prime recruiting grounds, and Palestinian fighters had been seen everywhere from Beijing to Germany. No one backed them anymore, except for the truly rabid anti-Zionists/Semites.

Either way, he suspected the Israelis wouldn't do more than imitate the League, and just harass them a bit as they left.

The moment of truth was about to happen, and he found himself having to restrain the urge to lean forward towards his mobile headquarters's console as his lead division counted down towards the assault. They were on a narrow front, and the Kurds knew exactly where they were going to attack.

The timer hit zero.

The bombardment began.

It wasn't going to be a long one—not with a division's worth of artillery concentrated on a brigade's frontage. But as he watched the imagery coming in from the camera feeds his men had set up, and saw buildings crumble to rubble and burst into flame, he hoped that the Kurds hadn't been lying. It was going to be a long way to the Iraqi border if they had been.

After fifteen minutes, the bombardment subsided, and the assault elements moved forward. This was his only brigade that had more than three-quarters of its assigned strength, and he did his best to breathe normally as they came into range of where the Kurdish outer defenses had been. No artillery bombardment killed or shocked everyone, and he waited for the sounds that would indicate that he would have to fight his way through the city.

None came, even as the first Battlemasters and Dragon Tanks moved into where the buildings had been on the outskirts of Ar Raqqah.

He didn't relax, though. If he'd been in command and planning to make a fight of it, his main strength would be concentrated in the city center, where bombardment would block the roads with rubble and prying his men out would require flame and bayonet.

But the lead elements reported no contacts as they moved through the city, and he ordered the follow-on brigade forward to secure behind them, and the reserve brigade to prepare to go in after them.

As they swept to the outskirts of the city, no one reported any contacts. The Kurds had apparently ordered all civilians out of the city—probably to make sure that the Syrians wouldn't interfere, somehow.

He waited for the peshmerga to come boiling out of the buildings with blood in their eyes. They did not, even as his lead division took positions to secure all the roads out of the city, and reported light screening forces to the northeast and the south.

He then ordered the next division forward, and told them to search every building along the route the army would take.

There was no one there.

With that, he ordered the surviving Helix squadrons to take up screening positions, told the lead division to push south until they ran into heavy resistance or the Iraqis that were supposedly containing the Kurds, and then got the rest of the army moving.

He was glad of it, too-the vanguard of the ELA force was starting to skirmish with his rearguard, and he didn't want to lose any more men than he had to.

He'd need them in the Zagros.


	8. Chapter 8

General "Tigress" Leang was extremely unhappy with the situation she was in. She had clawed her way to the top of the PLA, using every means at her disposal-her tactical acumen, her strategic insight, her sheer determination, and, yes, her body. She hated that she had had had to do so, but she'd only done it when someone had made it the price for recommendation or promotion. She had never, ever done it to gain advantage over a rival. Every time she had moved up the ranks, she'd deserved it.  
When she was assigned to command the Occupied Zone, she'd known that the Politburo saw it as a way to move her far away from the centers of power in Beijing, and to give her an opportunity to fall flat on her face. While she had never been the best commander during any of the conflicts China had engaged in before the war with the GLA, she had demonstrated that she could operate effectively under any circumstances, unlike the PLA's other top generals, and could acquire samples of foreign military technology and reverse-engineer them with relative ease.  
Then the war with the GLA had happened. Once again, she had used her talents well, shattering every GLA force she had run across-never stalled by heavy fortifications, never brought down by anthrax, and never giving her own troops radiation poisoning. That had brought her as high as she could go, without becoming a civilian again.  
But, in proof that there was no such thing as an unmixed blessing, it had also brought a general as capable as she to the foreground as well.  
She'd marked Wu Tsien as someone to watch even before the war-the Snow Dragon exercise in Manchuria, where he had taken the side that wasn't supposed to win and had come within an ace of defeating the PLA in the scenario before deliberately losing so subtlely she was certain she was the only one who'd noticed that he had lost deliberately. That incident had made his point while allowing the other generals to save face, and the tactical concept it had been meant to test had been quietly retired.  
Which was why Wu had been in Beijing when the GLA struck. And while it had been a good day for China, it had been a very bad day for Leang, as every single one of his succeeding victories had been. She could hear the whispers, as the men who felt threatened by a woman's rise to power began to push him forward.  
The worst part was that she was certain that Wu himself wasn't behind any of it. He'd been completely focused on destroying the GLA while trying to keep his men alive. But that didn't change the fact that he was a threat to her.  
And now this. The Occupied Zone had fallen completely, and the defense and surveillance plans that she had approved had proved to be completely ineffectual. Worse, she had been the one who ordered the attempted NORAD hack that had served as the Americans' pretext for war. And her only subordinate who hadn't been killed or captured was planning to fight his way back to China. If he made it back and she failed to make the proper preparations for what to do when he did, she was doomed.  
Fortunately for her, proper preparations would not be difficult to make. The Politburo considered tactical initiative a regrettable necessity, and operational initiative a dangerous one. Strategic initiative was something they were not prepared to tolerate, and Wu's actions certainly constituted that.  
She rather doubted that the thought had crossed his mind, which was why it was a shame that she would set him up for the Politburo to order her to destroy him. She was not vindictive, though-he would not even know he had fallen from grace.  
He would simply be shot in the back of the head while walking to what he would assume would be a welcoming party.  
That, of course, was only necessary if he reached China. If he didn't-so much the better.

* * *

Colonel Khamenei was not especially pleased.  
The attacks on the Chinese relief force had been wildly successful, it was true-Kassad and the IRGC had captured over a division's worth of Chinese equipment, and currently most of Kassad's share was crewed by Iranians. Two of the Chinese divisions had been reduced to little more than a few fragmented defensive huddles, none larger than a weak battalion, and his men were working on wiping out those. Unfortunately, the rearguard division had not only managed to survive as a unit, but had managed to destroy most of its equipment that had been hijacked, and was currently dug in at Qom.  
Had the two divisions in Iraq been all that remained, this would not have been so bad. The Chinese forces fleeing Europe, however, had struck a deal with the treacherous Kurds, which meant that two of his enemies were cooperating rather than fighting each other. This made his dreams of restoring the Islamic Republic to its former boundaries-and perhaps to those of the old Safavid Empire, in his more expansive fantasies-even more remote.  
At least the Iraqis had demonstrated that their usual incompetence hadn't changed. That was something, at least.

Also, he had the terrain on his side. The Zagros mountains had also saved Iran during the war with Iraq in the 80s, and they might serve to save him now.

The Chinese in Iraq were cut off from all resupply from the homeland, and with the extra troops that even now were transiting through Syria, that would mean more mouths to feed, vehicles to fuel, and weapons to provide ammunition for. If they wanted to go home, they would have to cross the mountains, and if he could keep them pinned in the Zagros for a week or so, they would be forced to give up. After all, would they attempt to take back everything they had given the Iraqis? He doubted it.

That, however, was for the future. He was certain it would take them at least a week to refit and reorganize well enough for them to try and break through.

Right now, however, he needed to determine how he would handle Prince Kassad, who he had not been paying attention to while he considered what would happen next. The man was, he had to admit, a competent planner and what the Americans called a "fixer," but he had the strategic instincts of a scavenger, not a soldier.  
"And so," the Arab said, "I do not see why we must face the Chinese in open battle. Why can we not bleed him through the Zagros-a squad here, a company there, perhaps even a battalion if they grow careless?"  
He was nervous, and Khamenei had to restrain himself from snorting in contempt. One of his friends who made an extensive study of the Americans had told him of a general who was so feared that his opponents expected him to-what was it-"turn a double somersault and land on both our flanks and rear at the same time." That was the reputation this Wu Tsien had, and Khamenei looked forward to shattering it.  
Kassad believed in it, though, and after losing to the Americans and the GLA faction that had lost to the Chinese, he was not ready to face them in battle. Khamenei was. Nothing could be worse than facing the Americans and General Thomas again. The Chinese were clumsy, and the Zagros demanded precision from the attacker rather than brute force.  
There was also the fact that Kassad thought like a royal, not a soldier trying to establish a government. A royal could combine harrying attacks and his birth to emerge as the symbol of liberation. A soldier, however, had to have victory.  
He looked squarely at the man.  
"The truth, your highness, is that you and I are very different men. You prefer to skulk in and strike from the shadows. I prefer to face my enemies, as a man does."  
Kassad gaped at him, and Khamenei smiled. He would be shocked if anyone had ever talked to the man as he was doing now. His bodyguards seemed as surprised as their employer, and the Iranian drove relentlessly on.  
"Our objectives are also different. You want to turn Iran into a supply source for your global jihad. I want to make it the most powerful country in the region again. Our partnership is ended."

He had long ago discussed with his bodyguards what the signal would be to eliminate Kassad and anyone with him, and his troops had standing orders to immediately kill or capture any visitors if firing was heard in the headquarters.

Kassad and his men, still in a state of shock from his tirade, never had a chance. Nor did the men he'd brought with him. And, once Khamenei managed to send out the signal "Farsia," neither did any of the other men who had come from Arabia.

And the IRGC raised the banner of the Islamic Republic of Iran once more.

* * *

Wu took a moment to look carefully at the two men in his office. General Feng Tao-ling's division had led the march from Xinjiang to Iraq, and he'd done a remarkably good job with it. Once the first attacks had occurred in Kazakhstan, it was estimated that his division would take 15% casualties before it reached Baghdad.

Instead, he had lost less than half of that number, which made it the strongest of the divisions Wu had available, and indicated that its commander knew what he was doing. He wanted to make it the lead division-the question was whether Feng would agree to take his orders. His authority technically only extended to those troops that had been in the Occupied Zone when Tsing handed over command. He suspected that Feng would follow, though-the story was that the only reason his division wasn't fighting its way into the Zagros right now was because the other division had been in the way.

That brought him to said division's commander, General Lu Wuyang. Admittedly, his division had been ambushed in the Zagros, unlike Feng's, but two of his brigades were at 80% strength, and his third at 70%. Also, his division had been attacked twice as often as Feng's had along the march.

However.

It was patently obvious, judging by the reports, that Lu's division had attracted those attacks because its security measures had been laxer than Feng's, and the guerrillas had realized that very quickly. As a result, they'd let Feng pass by, and then attacked Lu.

The question was whether or not the problems caused by removing Lu from command and replacing him with someone more competent would be greater than the problems caused by leaving him in command. He really wasn't sure. There were ways around that, however.

"General Lu."

"Sir?"

"I have an extremely important assignment for you."

"Yes, General?"

"We're low on supplies. We all are. Therefore, I am assigning you to…requisition…what supplies we can use from the Iraqis."

Lu nodded. "Yes sir."

Wu wasn't surprised at his lack of reluctance. After the Iraqis' utterly dismal performance against the Kurds, there wasn't a single Chinese soldier who thought they deserved the equipment and munitions China had provided to them as part of their aid package.

Of course, there was every chance that the Iraqis had surreptitiously sold a lot of it, possibly back to China, he thought sourly. There were more than a few generals in procurement who would have involved themselves in such schemes without even flinching.

"This, however, may take some time, and we will need to begin our return march to China soon. Therefore, you will turn command over your division to your deputy. Understood?"

"Yes sir," Lu replied, with considerably less enthusiasm. Wu knew that Lu knew good and well that he was removing him from a position he thought Lu shouldn't hold, but that he was giving Lu a chance to save at least a little face.

And who knew? If Lu did a good job of getting those supplies and equipment into the hands of troops who would actually use them properly, he might share in the credit if the campaign went well.

"General Lu, I'm sure you will be very busy dealing with these issues. You have my leave."

"Yes sir. Those supplies will get to our men, sir," Lu promised as he saluted.

"I'm sure they will, General," Wu replied as he returned it and Lu left the office.

When the door shut behind him, Feng spoke.

"Why was I here for that, General?"

"Because I needed you to know that I don't play games and that I'm not a hothead," Wu said flatly. "And because you have a reputation for being close-mouthed. I can trust you not to talk about this."

He shook his head. "His deputy seemed competent when I met with the two of them yesterday to discuss the state of his division. Is he?"

"Yes, General. Extremely so."

"Good. Your two divisions will be the leads for the march to Tehran."

Feng, he noted with approval, didn't even blink.

"You expect hard fighting through the Zagros, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Wu admitted. "The Iranians are tough, and they captured a lot of our equipment. We need our strongest units up front."

"How long do we have to get ready?"

"A week."

Feng didn't even blink. "Yes sir. What kind of support will we have?"

"As much as I can give you. We're still trying to sort out the airfield problem."

"Understood. I'll have my division turned around by this time tomorrow. Tell us where we need to go, and we'll go."

"Good. Here's the plan as matters stand right now."

* * *

Alp Arslan was in an extremely good mood, for several reasons. First, the attempted assassination of him and General Thomas had failed miserably, and there were few things he found more pleasant than to have any enemy so upset at him that he was targeted for a killing that failed. Second, said assassination attempt had given him a reason to order a crackdown in Constantinople against the GLA and all who harbored them, which had cleared out a lot of the clerics and others who might have opposed his plans for Turkey. Third, said assassination attempt had also made the Americans and Europeans much more…amenable to said plans. Or, at least, had made their leadership more amenable, and that was what mattered.

He looked over at Kanwar Khan, who'd stuck by him through two rebuildings of the GLA and the building of the ELA, despite the change in mission during the latter.

"Tell me, brother," he said, dropping into the old GLA way of speaking, "what do you think of all this? You have not said much, these past few weeks."

Khan shrugged. "Two years ago, I would have been making plans to kill you for betraying the brotherhood. Now? Now I will do whatever I must to help you."

One of the things he'd always appreciated about Khan was his brutal honesty, discomfiting though it could be. A man in his position needed someone like that around.

Right now, however, he needed to start on the hard work of securing the future, which was what the next two meetings were about.

The Kurdish question had always been a difficult one for Turkey-as the only major minority left in the country after the 1920s, they had been the main challenge to the idea of "Turkishness." Ataturk had been unwilling to let southeastern Anatolia go, especially since the British had included the Kurds of northern Mesopotamia in Iraq, but that decision had left his successors with multiple headaches.

He himself wasn't convinced that he would have done any better than his predecessors, but the fact remained that their policies had resulted in a low-level guerrilla war that had lasted for decades, and had only ended when the government had fallen during the GLA offensive that had followed the American withdrawal.

It would make things more difficult for him to secure power in the short-term—both the Turkish man in the street and the power brokers had a fierce attachment to maintaining the borders as they were. However, not having to deal with the obstreperous Kurds would make his life, and theirs, much easier in the long-term, and he could afford to take short-term losses for long-term gains.

"Mr. Barzani is here to see you, sir," Khan announced.

"Send him in, then," Arslan replied. While he wanted to keep him waiting for a little while, that sort of power game was petty. This was no time for pettiness.

When Simko Barzani stepped into the room, Arslan knew that he was dealing with a man like him. Part of this was because he'd read the man's dossier, and knew that he had been fighting for Kurdish independence since he was fourteen. But there was the fact that he had that bearing and look in his eye that said he had done too much to back down now-one Arslan saw when he looked in the mirror every morning.

"Sit, if you would, Mr. Barzani. There are matters we must discuss, you and I," he said in English.

"Yes, there are," Barzani replied, also in English, as he sat, "What can my people in what was Turkey expect from you, and what do you want for it?"

"Nothing," Arslan said, "because I intend to have nothing to do with them."

The leader of the Kurds quirked an eyebrow deliberately.

"You hold your lands. I do not intend to claim them for Turkey. There must, of course, be some negotiations about the exact boundaries. But there is more than enough for me to do without trying to incorporate your people into the new Turkey I plan to build."

Barzani's other eyebrow twitched slightly.

"What needs to be resolved?" He asked quietly, and Arslan smiled inwardly.

"To begin with, there is the issue of Central Anatolia..."

When Barzani left his office an hour later, Arslan was quite pleased. While the meeting hadn't resolved anything beyond outlining their opening positions, he believed he and Barzani could hammer out a mutually acceptable arrangement. It would all have to be secret, of course-he could not be seen to give anything away-but the Turkish people would accept what the Americans called a fait accompli, particularly if it meant fewer Kurds in their area.

This next meeting was the one he was really looking forward to.

"Imam Mushad is here to see you, sir," Khan said, the anticipation in his voice evident only to someone who knew him well.

Islam and the Turkish state had always had something of a tense relationship, even in the days of the Ottomans. Ataturk's determination to keep the state purely secular had only exacerbated the tension, and his successors had never fully resolved it.

Arslan was more willing to compromise on this matter, because unlike Ataturk he had no intention of following the French, and attempting to separate religion and the state. No, he would follow the Russians, and co-opt religion for the use of the state.

And Osman Mushad, the most prominent imam in Istanbul, had given him the perfect chance to begin his campaign.

When the cleric entered, he appeared to be in control of himself. Arslan was somewhat surprised, since his men had arrested or disappeared several of Mushad's fellows over the past few days. Then again, the imam doubtless thought that there was insufficient evidence to bring a fellow as prominent as he was to trial.

Unfortunately for him, he was dead wrong.

"Imam Mushad," he said quietly. "We have much to discuss, you and I."

"So we do," the cleric replied, taking a seat without asking. "I was wondering how you planned on incorporating the Faith into your new government."

It was, Arslan thought, a double-edged sword that everyone seemed to know that he would be in charge. He also found it difficult to believe that Mushad would be so blatant about his intentions, given what some of his people had found in the bank records and had managed to extract from their prisoners.

Then again, Mushad had never dealt with someone whose operatives were both able to track electronic transactions with ease and use torture to extract information from their prisoners. There were a few other things he had picked up from the GLA as well…

"I'm afraid that conversation will be with your successor."

"I don't understand."

"Imam Mushad, you funneled funds from your mosque to other imams, who then gave the money to the men who tried to assassinate me last week," Arslan said coldly.

"General, I do not know who has told you this thing, but it is a lie! I have always…"

"Been in bed with the GLA?" Arslan interrupted him. "You forget, Imam, that I was once part of the GLA." He smiled. "And, when I fled before the Chinese overran our base in Hamburg, I took with me the blackmail files. Some of which were recordings of you describing your recruitment efforts, work in money laundering, and assistance in acquiring supplies."

Mushad went white.

"Further, some of your associates were very talkative, and you did not hide your tracks well. I think," he said with a broad smile, "that you and your people are _finished._ "

"You need us," Mushad said, and Arslan was somewhat impressed by the fact that his voice barely quivered. "You cannot hope to rule Turkey without the clerics."

"I agree," Arslan said coldly. "Which is why I cannot let you be one of them. They will be _my_ clerics, and they will serve me in return for my support. And they will know the cost of betrayal, as you will show them."

Mushad wilted, and Arslan spoke sharply. "You should made sure that you killed me when you tried. I don't give second chances for that."

Four hard-faced men with assault rifles filed into the room, and he nodded towards the cleric. "Take him out and put him in a cell. No mistreatment, but don't coddle him either."

As they led the still-dazed prisoner out, Arslan leaned back in his chair and smiled. The first step had been a great one.

* * *

As Germaine sat in the briefing room, he wondered why he was here. American forces in Europe were already starting to draw down, starting with the most battered units, as the European nations got back on their feet. The President had already pledged that America would never "turtle" again, and had outlined a plan that would keep four divisional equivalents in Europe until next year, three for another, two for another two years, and then a reinforced division after that.

That, however, did not explain why he and several dozen of the best special forces operatives in the army were sitting in this room. What was there left to do? In the same speech, President Harrison had also stated that the Persian Gulf was no longer one of America's vital security interests, and no American forces would be deployed to the east of Lebanon.

Germaine had no problem with that, but that didn't leave much for such an assemblage of sheer destructive talent as was in this room to actually do.

"Attention on deck!" someone yelled, and Germaine and the others shot to their feet as Colonel Burton entered the room.

"Sit down," the man said as he went to the podium. "We have work to do."

He looked around with a sardonic smile. "I hope you didn't think that just because those straight-legs and hotshots were done fighting that you were."

There was some laughter at that, albeit with a bitter tinge. Specops tended to be first in, last out, and had a higher divorce rate than any other branch.

Burton sobered quickly. "There's still some unfinished business," he said quietly, and everyone leaned forward.

"The Chinese are planning to fight their way back to China. Along the way, they're going to encounter both the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, and Rodall Juhziz's remnant of the GLA. In neither case, or so Intel says, are they planning to wipe them out. They're just going to break through and hold the roads open long enough to get out. Intel thinks they can manage that, although they're less certain about whether they can fight through the Russians and Indians."

He paused for a moment. "That's where we come in."

He paused again, and Germaine knew he wasn't alone in holding his breath. Were they going to try and make sure the Chinese didn't make it back, or...

"Higher has decided that it doesn't just want the GLA discredited, it wants it gone. Juhziz is the last leader of any significance that they have, we know where his headquarters is, and the Chinese don't." He smiled then. "So when the Chinese blow their way through his men, and have thoroughly humiliated him, we're going to drop in on him and blow him away. I trust you gentlemen are up for that?"

"Hoo-rah!" belted out from everyone in the room. They knew what Burton wanted to hear, and as it matched what they wanted to say, they could work with that.

"Excellent. Now, this mission is going to be a little more interesting than usual, because we're relying on someone else's timetable."

Germaine nodded. If they were going to be waiting until the Chinese fought their way through Juhziz's forces, it could anywhere from two weeks to a month.

Burton stuck his thumb back at the screen behind him. "Bring up the map please, Cordwainer. Thanks," he added as Central Asia flashed onto the screen.

"Juhziz has his headquarters located here," he said, bringing out a laser sight and putting it on an area on the Turkmenistan-Kazakhstan border, about fifty miles from the Caspian Sea. "It's located far from anywhere, but it's still well-defended, in the way Juhziz usually has. Demo Traps, Bomb Trucks, Terrorist car bombs."

Germaine winced. He'd only done one op against a base run by one of Juhziz's subordinates. By the time it was over, they'd wiped out the base with minimal casualties, but it had been more nerve-wracking than operating against Kassad, and there had been a lot of close calls.

"We'll have some serious anti-stealth assets, though," Burton added, "and explosions don't have IFF."

Germaine grinned. That was how they'd cleared out the base in Uzbekistan-they'd lured GLA forces into range of their own Demo Traps, then blown them to hell.

"Now some of you," Burton continued, "are wondering how we're going to get there. The answer is that we're going to be basing out of Azerbaijan. They don't like the GLA any more than we do—bad for the oil business."

He paused. "Now understand this. This is a no-cancel op. The only thing that'll stop it is if conditions are bad enough that we can't lift off. So if that's a problem for anyone, back out now."

No one moved.

"Like I thought. Now, we're going to come in..."

Germaine sat back and let the briefing wash over him. This was going to be a good op, and while it was going to be rough, it was worth doing. Who knew, maybe he'd even get to shoot Juhziz himself. They'd probably be under orders to take him alive, but those were always "if practicable." If it looked like he was going to get away…well, he wouldn't complain if he got to shoot the man.


	9. Chapter 9

Jarmen Kell slept as one who had fought for years in the service of various causes would be expected to sleep when he wasn't out in the field—quite soundly, unless there was a sudden change in the environment.

Which was why, when he fully came to his senses and realized that he was out of his bed and pinning a man against the wall with one arm while holding a knife to his throat with the other, the man's eyes wider than he'd ever seen on anyone.

"Who sent you?" he snapped as he began to recover himself.

"General Arslan. He says he wishes to speak to you," the man said nervously, doing his best not to move his throat against the blade.

"Did he not tell you that coming into my room without announcing yourself is a good way to be injured or killed?" Kell asked, withdrawing his knife as he realized that he recognized the luckless fellow as one of Arslan's staff members.

"He mentioned it," the man replied, "but you didn't respond when I knocked, and the door was unlocked."

Kell sighed. This fellow really should have known better, but as he recalled he'd only joined the fight after the formation of the ELA. "Next time, call. Now, do you know what this is about?"

"Something about unfinished business. That's all."

The sniper smiled. He knew what that meant. "Tell him I will be there shortly."

The fellow turned and nearly fled from the room.

Kell shook his head. It had been a long few weeks since the war started, and he was tired. After removing General Kwai, he had assisted in the liberation of Krakow, then made his way to the south, bouncing from group to group as they had need of his services. He had even infiltrated into Chinese-held territory with a group of Hijackers and Rebels, trying to relieve some of the guerillas on the Hungarian-Romanian border.

That plan had actually gone as well as he expected it would—before, that is, the League pinched off what was being called "the Vienna Salient," and the Chinese went into full retreat. After that, it worked far better.

They hadn't been able to stop the Chinese from retreating—there weren't enough men to block off more than one highway, for one thing—but they had managed to suck in and destroy a mechanized battalion while taking few to no casualties of their own.

After that, Arslan had sent him to Bucharest, where he'd investigated Wu's headquarters for anything useful. Unsurprisingly, there hadn't been.

After that, he'd been left there for about a week, and he caught up on some much-needed sleep. Then some idiots tried to assassinate Arslan and Thomas, and he'd been called down to Istanbul to provide assistance during the hunt. It was boring work, in truth, and while Kell didn't _mind_ boredom, as it was better than having a MiG missile land so close to you that your eyebrows weren't there anymore, holding your crosshairs on a window for hours and then not getting to shoot something day after day was somewhat frustrating.

Which was probably why he'd been somewhat more violent and somewhat shorter with Arslan's staffer than he should have been. He probably wouldn't apologize, though—the experience would do the boy good.

Once he'd slung his bandolier and his rifle, he left his room—which was the best in the hotel, although thankfully the hotel was not the best in the city, he wouldn't be able to sleep in _that_ level of opulence—and walked to Arslan's headquarters, less than a block away.

He took his time, as it had been a long while since he could walk down a city street without having to worry about being shot at, bombed, or spotted by an overly alert soldier on patrol or satellite. Here and now in Istanbul, he could walk about as he pleased.

It was a somewhat strange feeling.

He liked it.

Yes, it was _definitely_ time to retire.

However, he needed to finish this before he could do that. If nothing else, he'd helped Juhziz more than once during his rise to power and afterwards, and he intended to finish off what he'd helped start.

When he stepped into Arslan's headquarters, the officer who'd entered his room was there, awaiting him somewhat nervously. He decided to play it straight.

"Where is the general?"

"Right this way sir," the man said with a look of obvious relief. "If you'll come with me?"

As they walked through the headquarters, Kell looked around carefully. Arslan was a good soldier, but he'd seen soldiers ruined by living in luxury—the late, unlamented Prince Kassad came to mind. However, everything seemed to be as busy as it should be, and everyone was moving like they had jobs to do, although the security seemed somewhat laxer than it should have been. He should not have been able to walk in like he had, and he mentioned it to the staff member.

He smiled slightly. "We have cameras and people watching the entrance at all times. If you were someone else, some of the guards would have met you instead."

That was reassuring, and he approved of the fact that Arslan's security chief favored hiding his security rather than placing it out in the open. He never had understood the need to make security arrangements blindingly obvious.

When they arrived at their destination, the staffer opened the door and said simply, "The general is in here, sir."

Kell stepped through the door, and as it closed behind him his suspicions were instantly confirmed. Arslan was there, as were several others gathered around a map table-all of them from the old GLA.

He looked around. "General Arslan. Salim. Hassan. Nazar. Ruhollah. It's been some time since we were all together."

"So it has," Nazar, who had been one of the best Hijackers in Central Asia before Deathstrike's campaign, replied. The others nodded. "Too long," the Kazakh added.

"Agreed," Arslan said quietly, "but we can talk about the old days and what we've been doing later. Right now, we have an attack to plan."

"Juhziz?" Kell asked.

"Juhziz," The general replied. No one said anything. Killing former comrades was always at least a little painful—except, perhaps, for Dr. Thrax, who'd made it clear that he was more interested in burning down the world and dancing in the ashes than anything else. That the Iranians had killed Kassad, Kell considered a blessing from Allah—removing him would have been personally painful.

"How would you prefer we do it?" Kell asked.

"There is a boat we have acquired in Baku," Arslan said quietly, "with enough room for between fifty and a hundred fighters. It will take you across the Caspian Sea. From there, you'll move to attack Juhziz's base here," he tapped on a location on the old Turkmen-Kazakh border.

"Any questions?"

"When, general?"

"Before the Americans get there. I don't know what information Juhziz still has about various incidents, and I'd rather they not know either."

Kell fully understood that. All of the GLA's leadership, including himself and Arslan, had been involved in the attack on the Americans' Pacific Coast, but as far as they knew the Americans didn't know that. If they wanted to live their lives without looking over their shoulders for rendition teams, it needed to stay that way.

"I think," Arslan continued, "that they plan on striking in the next two weeks. You need to be in position within a week. Kell, you're in charge. Get anyone you think you'll need. If anyone questions you, direct them to me. You speak with my voice."

Kell nodded deeply. "Yes sir. We won't fail."

"I know you will not. Now, there are other matters I must attend to. This room is yours until the operation is over. If anyone gives you trouble, direct them to me, and I will clarify things for them." Arslan smiled coldly. "Good hunting."

When the general had left the room, Kell turned to his old comrades. "We don't have much time. Let's get to work."

* * *

Lin Zhong watched carefully as Wu sat down. The next hour would determine whether or not they would be able to fight their way through Iran.

If they'd properly identified the Iranian positions, if the artillery was properly placed, if Black Lotus was in position to bring down their communications network, if the follow-on troops could exploit the breakthroughs...There were so many if's, and she wondered how Wu could stand it, and look so unflappable.

Then again, he knew what his plans were, and she didn't—not really. She knew the broad outlines, but she did not know the details. In fact, she was certain that he was the only one who knew all the details of what he was planning.

There was nothing else for them to do, right now. Everything had arrived at where it was going to be when the attack began. There had been a few traffic problems, the MiGs had nearly been delayed by a sandstorm, and an entire battalion had gotten lost, but they had resolved all those issues.

Now there were five minutes left, and the wait was utterly agonizing. Would something happen that would upset all their plans? Would Leang call and order them not to attack? Would the Iranians attack themselves, perhaps with anthrax?

She looked at the timer again. Four minutes.

She looked at Wu, who still appeared to be utterly at peace with the world, and drew confidence from it. If he wasn't worried, why should she be? After all, she only had to relay what was happening. He was the one who had to actually make the decisions.

She took a few moments to check her console. Everything was where it was supposed to be.

She looked at the timer again. Two minutes.

She thought about her family in Szechuan. She didn't think her parents were too worried about her, because once they'd made it to Iraq she'd managed to send a message, but even though she was their daughter she knew they cared for her. As for her younger brother, he was safely garrisoned near Shanghai. They'd been in a rural area, which meant the one-child policy had been much less stringent than in the cities.

She wondered when she'd see the hills of her home again, then looked at the timer.

Fifteen seconds.

She nestled her earpiece a little more snugly.

Ten seconds.

She caught Wu leaning forward slightly out of the corner of her eye as she focused on her console.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The storm began.

* * *

Khamenei went white as he saw where the Chinese were bombarding. He'd known where the Chinese would attack-there were only two roads that were viable for them to go over, and so he'd fortified them like there was no tomorrow.

He'd anticipated that they would concentrate on the fortifications in order to make the breakthrough, and so he'd concentrated artillery and armor forward, ready to break up, seal off, and destroy any penetrations.

Yes, the reserves were within range of the Chinese artillery, but his men had concealed them well, as they had the various headquarters of his units.

Or so he had thought.

His dearly-bought armor had Chinese artillery strikes dropping right on top of it, his headquarters and supply depots were going up in firestorms as Inferno Cannon put their rounds right on top of them, and there was precious little he could do about it.

But he'd come too far and done too much to break and run now, and he was not going to quit. This battle was still salvageable.

"Order all rear-echelon units to move to their secondary positions," he snapped. "Tell everyone that they'll be pulling from their reserve supply sources, and that communications will be dubious for the foreseeable future."

As his communications men hurried to issue the order, he looked at the console in front of him, one of the few the IRGC had, and cursed. He knew where most of his forces were, but that was only because he knew they hadn't moved since the bombardment began. The lack of communications would make things more difficult, but he could work with that. His men had all the roads to Khorramabad and Isfahan covered, and it looked like they were mainly attacking along the Khorramabad route. It was the shortest one, which made it unsurprising. So much for this brilliant Chinese general.

"Order the reserves from Qom to move to Khorramabad, and to make it quick. We'll hold them, but we need their support. And move the reserves from Isfahan to Khorramabad as well."

He heard his men give out the orders, and smiled. This would place Iran back on the map, for certain.

Then everything went dark.

"What just happened?" he asked.

"I don't know, your Excellency," one of the communications men replied as he frantically tapped on his keyboard. "Everything's shut down, and we can't bring it back up."

Khamanei cursed. The Chinese must have used one of their EMP bombs. No matter.

"I'm going to Khorramabad," he announced, as he moved towards the trailer's doorway. "Once you have everything fixed, follow me."

"Yes, your—" the technician's voice was cut off as the door shut and Khamenei strode towards the motor pool. If the Chinese thought that sort of gimmick would prevent him from commanding his men, they could think again.

He never heard the shell that blew him apart, and thus did not hear the shells that tore apart his headquarters, either.

Command had already largely devolved to local control by that point—however, a strong hand guiding everything was a necessity in this kind of battle, and the IRGC knew who would command if Khamanei died. Unfortunately, no one could be sure if he was dead, and by the time someone made it out to his headquarters and confirmed that he was dead, Chinese troops had had broken through the defenses covering the road to Khorramabad in multiple places, and the man supposed to succeed him was dead, as was his successor. They finally found the fourth man on the line, valiantly holding off a Chinese force that was about to cut off a retreating brigade.

By the they managed to get him in a position to where he could actually exert some command and control, Chinese forces had broken through the defenses on the route to Isfahan.

* * *

Black Lotus was extremely pleased with herself.

Khamenei's headquarters had not been disabled via an EMP-it had been strictly her work, and hard work it had been.

Well, the actual disabling hadn't been difficult-the late Colonel's computer security had been borderline nonexistent-but getting into a position to do so had not been easy.

She and her team had flown by Helix across Kurdish-held territory, with their tacit approval, although they'd still stayed at low altitude, flying through valleys and between hills whenever possible. The Kurds had taken some losses during the Chinese drive across Syria to maintain plausible deniability, and they weren't about to give it up.

It hadn't been all bad, though, since it had gotten them used to that sort of flying before they reached Iran, which was no small thing, especially when going through the Zagros. That had been somewhat unpleasant-lots of updrafts, downdrafts, and crosswinds, in addition to trying to fly through uninhabited territory at almost any cost.

However, they'd finally made it, although they'd had to abandon the Helixes when they made it to the landing site, since they were nearly out of fuel. Fortunately, the clearing where they'd landed was tucked into some fairly rough terrain that showed no signs of recent activity. Hopefully, there had been no one around when the self-destruct mechanisms activated.

After that, it had been a two-night march to Khamenei's headquarters, despite the fact that it was less than fifteen kilometers away. Infiltrations were like that, especially when they were done over mountains. The hackers with her were the same ones that had made the march with her through Italy, but they'd still slowed things a little. At least she'd been able to keep Sergeant Cao with her, and his presence had done as much to keep them moving as anything else.

Once they'd gotten into position, in a quiet recess in the hills, she and her team had gotten to work. They'd started early that morning, but they'd been done by noon. That had actually worried her a little-the longer the viruses and worms were in the Iranians' computers, the greater the chance that they would be discovered.

That hadn't happened, however, and when the attack began, they'd been able to follow every order that Khamenei gave, from first to last. And then, when he gave the order to move everything to Khorramabad, she'd given the viruses the activation order, and within seconds had completely cut off the IRGC's headquarters.

That order also sent out a burst transmission to the long-range artillery that was targeted in on the headquarters. While she hadn't seen it in person, watching it through the cameras the infantry had set up around the headquarters had been good enough.

Once that was done, they'd abandoned and destroyed their heavier equipment, and started marching south. Crossing the highway had been dangerous, but they'd made it across without incident.

Now, all that was left was to get to the exfiltration point, which, while easier said than done, wouldn't be especially difficult. After all, the Iranians would be completely focused on defending Khorramabad.

Which was precisely where General Wu had no intention of going.

Black Lotus smiled. It was such a joy to work for a man who understood these things. It reminded her of working with General Shin Fai.

She stopped for a moment to compose herself. That thought had certainly come unbidden, and she spoke sternly to herself. There would be time to mourn her lover later. Right now, she had to pay back those who had sent him to his death. And that was the only reason she had wanted Khamenei dead, aside from his fanaticism.

He had stood in her way.

Vengeance would be hers.

"Is there a problem, ma'am?" Cao asked quietly from behind her, and she turned to him with a slight smile painted on her face.

"No, Sergeant. I'm just adjusting my footing. Usually I have heels on, not hiking boots."

His mouth twitched in what she suspected would have been a smile on someone else's face as he replied, "Well, it's not far now, ma'am. Five kilometers or so."

"Thank you, Sergeant," she replied, and, after scanning the column to make sure everyone was keeping up—which they were, although some of them barely—she turned her face towards her goal and walked forward.

She had work to do.

* * *

Wu Tsien wasn't relaxed, exactly-he couldn't afford to actually relax, and probably wouldn't be able to for a long time to come-even after he made it back to China. He suspected that the Politburo would be keeping a very careful eye on him-and if they didn't, General Leang would.

But he was much less tense than he had been twenty-four hours ago, because the operation had gone off almost exactly as planned. There had been a few problems, of course, but the Iranians had been well and truly sucked in.

Nearly everything they had was either on the road to Khorramabad or already in the city, and his MiGs were harassing the columns as they went. It was costing him precious planes, pilots, fuel, and missiles, but if they went there unmolested even the Iranians might become suspicious. Besides, most of that armor was captured equipment, and he wanted to leave as little of that in foreign hands as possible.

But right now, nearly every soldier he had was on their way to Isfahan, covered by the screen of the assault divisions and patrolling Helixes. He was fairly confident that he would be able to extract the division moving towards Khorramabad without too much difficulty, as well-there was a good road between the road to there and the one to Isfahan.

Right now, however, he was watching his map with the utmost care. Isfahan was only the first step. He wouldn't stop worrying about the IRGC until the last unit made it through Qom.

"General," Major Lin's voice broke into his thoughts. "Black Lotus and her team have been picked up. They're on their way back here now."

"Good," Wu replied. "Have they set up the temporary airfields yet?"

"Almost, sir. In a few hours, all they'll need will be munitions and fuel. Also, the follow on division along the Isfahan route is reporting sporadic skirmishing. Nothing significant-a squad here, a team there, nothing larger than a platoon-but it is slowing them down. On the other hand, the vanguard reports that Isfahan is in sight."

"Is there any opposition?"

"Very little, sir. Once we broke through their front line and destroyed their initial counterattack, organized resistance seems to have ceased."

Wu nodded. As he'd anticipated.

"Order them to skirt the city as much as possible. We don't have time to clear it, and I want them in Qom quickly." He paused. "Then, order all units to go down the road to Isfahan, in the original order of march. Tell General Feng to slow his advance-I want him to be able to break contact."

"Yes sir," Lin replied. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"Yes. Once they've transmitted that they're moving, get the commander of our forces in Tehran on the line. I need to talk with him. Make it so, Major."

"Yes sir," Lin replied, and began to work with a will.

Wu didn't think that there would be any issues with convincing General Feng to let him base his MiGs out of the airfields the Chinese government had built in Iran's capital-they were old friends, and had been ever since the Academy. What might get tricky would be convincing him to abandon the city, and the puppet government that currently owned it.

Although...He thought about it for a moment. Nearly a third of the troops under his command were only fit for garrison duty right now. Could he leave them in Tehran while he took the rest with him?

Well, that wasn't quite right. Could he leave them in Tehran until last, and then use them as the rearguard?

That had...possibilities, but it depended on what the Russians and Indians would do. That was something he'd spent at least a little time pondering, and he wasn't sure what that would be. He was fairly confident that he could fight through the Russians—the performance of their troops during the Chechen Wars, and the fighting against the GLA in Central Asia, had been below par, and he was receiving intelligence that indicated that they were having difficulty supplying the troops blocking his supply route already.

The Indians, though, were a different story. Yes, China had beaten them soundly before, but that had been decades ago. And their performance against the Pakistanis had been much better than the analysts had expected, although supposedly they'd been less effective against the Chinese troops sent to help defend Islamabad than their performance against the Pakistanis might have indicated.

He wasn't sure, however, how much of that had been due to them expecting to face Pakistanis with Battlemasters and instead running into Chinese with Overlords. If they were expecting him, he anticipated that they would be able to put up a tough fight.

Besides, the Indians had ended up overrunning that brigade and destroying it, albeit only after surrounding them once the Pakistani units on their flanks collapsed.

That, however, was thinking two steps ahead of himself. The next step was figuring out how to fight his way through Juhziz's forces without being so wrecked that he couldn't break through. Intel indicated that there was the equivalent of a reinforced division across his planned line of march-and it was the only route he could feasibly take.

It would be a long march to the final battle.

* * *

Ranjit Chamnadgar was tired but happy, for several reasons.

First, his country had utterly broken the Pakistanis, and he anticipated that there would be some...border adjustments…. Ones that would probably actually help Pakistan become a functional country in the long term, or so his intel officer said, but he didn't really care about that. All he cared about was the fact that one of his country's two longtime rivals would no longer have that status.

He snorted. They didn't even have their nuclear weapons anymore, and it was his country's special forces that had made it so. Oh, the Americans had provided assistance, to be sure, mostly in guiding them to the warheads, but it was the Special Action Group that had seized the things and kept the Pakistani Army off of them until his division had relieved them.

He was rather proud of that.

Furthermore, they'd managed to get through Afghanistan with minimal casualties as well. Yes, they'd had to promise the Pashtuns independence (he suspected they'd call the result "Pashtunistan" and that it would be a basket case of a country, but with any luck they'd mostly settle for quarreling amongst themselves and quit bothering everyone else) and there'd likely be diplomatic hell to pay when it was all over, but all the same they'd managed to link up with the Russians in Samarkand less than two days after they'd arrived there-and the latter had hardly had to fight any pitched battles at all, aside from a Chinese brigade that had stood off the attack on Astana for two days and a counterattack that had nearly retaken Almaty.

It was as he and his fellow officers had suspected. The bear was grown halt and lame.

Yes, it had taken them four days to take Islamabad, but that had been against three Pakistani divisions and a Chinese armored brigade. The Chinese hadn't gotten there until the second day, mind you, but India's army had nothing to be ashamed of when compared to its Russian counterpart.

Of course, there was still the question of which way this General Wu would come. The attack into Iran had been a masterpiece of misdirection, and it was possible that he might decide to go through what had been Afghanistan and Tajikistan on his way to Almaty, instead of through Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan.

He doubted it, although that might have been wishful thinking on his part. His eagerness to face the Chinese had waned significantly after Islamabad. His division hadn't faced the initial onslaught, but it had been part of the force that had cut off and destroyed the troops they'd sent, and he'd seen the wreckage.

The division they'd attacked had been utterly shattered, its remnants shoved aside by the Overlords. Against the Pakistanis, even on the attack, Indian troops inflicted nearly twice the number of casualties they'd incurred-on the defense, the ratio had been closer to five to one. Against the Chinese, they'd taken losses at one to one on the defense-on the attack, it had been closer to four to one. Those Overlords were monsters, and their crews didn't seem to understand the meaning of the word "surrender."

And from the reports he was getting from some of his academy classmates on the Himalayan border, the Chinese infantry were just as tough, although they had retaken all the territory they'd lost in 1962.

His country had redeemed itself enough. Let the Russians bleed now, he thought as he looked out over Dushanbe. India was safer than it had been at any point since independence, and he said a brief prayer to Vishnu to keep it so.

He then wished Wu luck in fighting through the GLA. Now that was a force that all civilized men needed to fight against. Maybe once this was done, they all could. Now that would be a war worth fighting.


	10. Chapter 10

Sergeant Bai Chiang was not especially happy.

Yes, the defense of Martinsicuro had been much easier than he thought it would be. The Americans had barely made their presence known, and the ELA troops had only launched one real attack, which the defenders had easily beaten off, before his men received the evacuation order.

Yes, he and his men had largely been spared from doing any fighting during the long march—no one called it a "retreat," since they'd usually had to attack enemy forces in order to get somewhere—from Dubrovnik to Tehran, aside from a few ambushes here and there.

Yes, the forces that had managed to evacuate the Iberian peninsula had been consolidated into a reinforced brigade, with the various battalions based around grouping soldiers from units that were close to one another, which meant that he at least knew of, if not knew, most of the officers and noncoms in the battalion with him.

Yes, as a result, the consolidated units were actually coordinating semi-decently, which was not really normal for slapped-together units..

But he did not think that any of this made them good material to be the tip of the lance between Tehran and Ashgabat.

They had precious little heavy equipment, for one thing—the whole force, informally referred to as the "Iberian Dragons," had only a platoon of Overlords, and those only because their commander had committed several acts of insubordination to get them onto the evacuation flights from Barcelona and the ships from Pescara.

For another, two of the four combat battalions were comprised of men whose only commonality was that they were in the same division. He wouldn't want them on his flank unless they were dug-in and fighting the ELA. Only his battalion, which was still commanded by Major Wu, and was almost entirely comprised of men from the same brigade, and the fourth battalion, which was in the much situation, were ready for offensive action.

And now, they were going to take on Juhziz's Demo Traps, troops and vehicles, the latter two of which were all rigged to explode, fight their way through, and keep the highway usable. The only good thing about this was that, apparently, Juhziz refused to use anthrax. Claimed it was a perversion of the gift of life given by Allah or something, Bai hadn't really been paying attention at that point in the briefing.

But as his squad trundled down the highway in their Battle Crawler, he found himself fervently hoping that the opposition would be minimal. They'd crossed the Turkmenistani border about fifteen minutes ago, or so the driver had said, and he wondered if perhaps…

An explosion rocked the APC back slightly, bullets began to hit the sides, and that particular dream of his died as he yelled at his men to "Move!"

The doors slammed open, and within five seconds everyone was out and on the side of the road, trying to find some scrap of cover as Juhziz's men sprayed the convoy with bullets.

He looked around for the source of the fire, trying to keep his head low as rounds zipped by his head. He heard a strangled cry as Private Gao took a hit somewhere, and he hoped that it wasn't—there!

He nestled his rocket launcher into his shoulder and fired at the angle of the stone wall surrounding an orchard less than a hundred meters away from the road.

Stones, weapons, and men went flying, and the volume of fire coming towards his squad dropped noticeably.

He snorted. Idiots. You never packed in like that, not on this kind of battlefield.

Then a Gatling Tank began to fire over their heads towards where the rest of the fire was coming from, and he saw their chance.

"Squad, to the stone wall! By sections, go!"

They went, and while they were still a little ragged it was still a creditable performance. They arrived just in time to kill some of the GLA men who had recovered enough to try and shoot them, and he took a moment to decide what to do next.

He looked over at the rocky area the Gatling tank was firing at. That would keep Juhziz's men down, but they'd just wait the thing out. No, his men would need to attack, unless one of the other squads was available.

He looked around. They all seemed busy.

"Squad, to those rocks. Fire and maneuver. On me, move!"

As long as there wasn't a Demo Trap, he thought as he jumped the wall, his men should be fine.

Just after the second section's third bound, the GLA soldiers realized that they were about to be run out of position, and started moving in his men's direction.

Private Chang Guizhou, who had just gone to ground, and was the other Tank Hunter in the squad, came to one knee, fired, and so obviously missed that Bai planned to chew him a new—

The rocket slammed into a pillar of rock, which fell forward in a cloud of dust, partially on the GLA men, and Bai made a mental note to tell him that had been a smart move.

"Charge!" he yelled, and his men hurtled forward, including Chang. By the time the dust cleared, they were on the GLA position, and his men had bayonets and better training than their opponents.

It didn't take long at all to clear it out, and by the time they were done, the firing had stopped. As he led his men back to the road, he noticed that there were more GLA bodies and wrecks than Chinese, and he hoped that was an omen for the future.

It was still going to be a long way to Ashgabat.

* * *

Germain was not especially happy, largely because he was extremely bored.

The truth was that while he'd been to a lot of exotic places, he usually hadn't seen much of them—usually, he was sniping people, getting briefed or debriefed, training, or sleeping. Istanbul had been the exception rather than the rule.

Baku was the rule, even more so than usual. The Azeris were apparently playing all ends against the middle, the only exception being the GLA, which they feared and despised. What this meant was that while they were willing to host the strike force going after Juhziz, they were also determined to keep that fact as hidden as possible.

Which was why they were all crammed into a warehouse complex on the outskirts of the capitol city, waiting for the word to go.

The only good thing about it was that they were at least getting updates about the progress the Chinese had made, which gave them a better idea of when they would finally move.

However, the news was not especially encouraging on that front. Juhziz had pulled out of Iran, and the IRGC forces that hadn't been pulled into the Kermanshah cauldron had retreated from the road between Tehran and Turkmenistan.

As a result, the Chinese had faced little opposition until they crossed the border. Right now, though, they were apparently dealing with ambush after ambush, and their progress had slowed to a crawl.

All of which meant that they would probably be stuck here for at least another week, he thought moodily as he looked at the ceiling while trying to ignore the poker game going on ten feet away.

"Attention on deck!" he heard someone yell, and he scrambled to his feet as Colonel Burton entered the building.

"As you were," the old soldier said, "I have news. We're not the only ones going after Juhziz. Intel spotted some troops setting up ten miles away from his base yesterday, but we don't know who they are. Intel thinks it's the Chinese, but if it were I think they'd have attacked was soon as they found him." He looked around the room. "This does not change the mission, it just adds in something new we have to work around. Briefing at 2000. Dismissed."

As Burton left, Germain found himself hoping that this new force, whoever they were, wouldn't get to Juhziz before they did. He really didn't want to have spent all this time waiting for nothing.

He decided to join the poker game. At least that would give him something to do.

* * *

Luo Yu had no complaints about his present position. The division was third in the line of march, behind the two divisions put together from the survivors of the divisions from northern and western Europe. Let them deal with the GLA.

The past two weeks had been…interesting. Once his brigade had reorganized, General Li had managed to relieve what was left of the lead brigade of the division and the few fragments of the division in front of them that had managed to make it to their positions. Then, General Song had withdrawn the division to a good position just north of Qom and dug in. The Iranians had launched a few probing attacks, but they'd been badly bloodied each time. They'd left a screening force then, and pulled the rest of their men south to face Wu. That had turned out to be a mistake.

The moment General Song realized that Wu's offensive would succeed, he'd launched his own attack, with Yu's battalion in the lead.

The Iranians had gone down like millet before the sickle, and they'd secured Qom within two hours. When the lead elements of Wu's forces had arrived, there had been much rejoicing, and the Iranians in Kermanshah had been confused enough that they didn't manage to attack until the rearguard division had almost reached Qom.

The slaughter had been utterly one-sided. The Iranians didn't know how to use Chinese equipment to its full effectiveness, three days was more than enough time to dig the tanks in and set up Bunkers and Gatling Turrets with interlocking fields of fire, and the IRGC had come straight up the road from Kermanshah.

Total Chinese casualties had been around five hundred men, two Overlords, ten Battlemasters, and three Gatling tanks. One of those Battlemasters had been from his battalion, and he wished it hadn't been.

The Iranians had lost at least ten times as many men, however, and almost all of what was left of the equipment they had captured. Intel thought they had maybe a company's worth left, with not an Overlord among them.

He wasn't expecting his men's next fight to be as easy, though, because he knew why Wu had put those rag-tag, fragile divisions up front, instead of the good ones.

The Russians and the Indians awaited them, and they had had weeks to prepare. If Wu botched the maneuvering and the planning, the Chinese would be in the same position as the Iranians had been, just with heavier tanks and air support. They'd break through, but the cost would be high.

Then again, even if Wu did everything right, the cost would still be high, just not as high.

Right now, however, that was not his problem, he thought as he looked around at the desert and kept an eye and ear on the state of his battalion and another of each on the terrain around him.

His job was to get his battalion there intact, and then do his part for whatever plan Wu came up with.

He smiled. That was fine with him. Wu would get them home.

Wu would get them home.

To General Leang, the thought was utterly terrifying.

Worse, not only would he get them home, he would almost certainly get them home as organized, formed units, not fragmented remnants trying to escape their pursuers. Then, to complete the ascendancy, he would do so after defeating the IRGC, which had inflicted the second-worst military defeat China had suffered in decades—the worst, of course, being that inflicted by the League—and Russia and India, which had been China's rivals far longer than the Americans had.

That would be what would seal her fate if she didn't manage to play her cards well. If she did play them well, though, she could turn the honor and prestige his victories would bring about on Wu instead of her?

She paused for a moment. Did she want to destroy him? Couldn't she just, say, get him assigned to some prestigious but meaningless post, like the Taiwan garrison?

She shook her head. No. As long as he remained, the old men in the Politburo would see him as an alternative to her. He would replace her with no effort on his part at all—and that galled her more than all the rest.

Who should she start working on first?

Deng Jintao, she decided. Hu Xinping was panicky enough that starting with him would be counterproductive. Deng, however, was sober enough that if she managed to convince him, the rest of them would at least take the idea that Wu would try and use his victory as a springboard to take power seriously.

From there, it wouldn't be hard to plant a few bread crumbs for investigators to find. It might even be possible to get him to say something indiscreet about her and the Politburo-reports were that he had very carefully expressed reservations about Chinese policy in the puppet states and the Occupied Zone.

Yes, a little bit of that, and soon the general would be removed from the board. And, with the other three generals either dead or disgraced, there would be no one to supplant her until she wanted to retire. She needed to begin now, too. Her informants were telling her that the whispers were already beginning that perhaps she was not essential.

She picked up the phone and dialed a number. "May I speak with Secretary Deng, please?"

* * *

Black Lotus listened in on the conversation with a growing sense of disgust. Leang could have at least waited until Wu made it back to China before she started undermining his position with the Politburo.

This would not do. Fortunately, she had been gathering information on Leang for years, and so knew that she had certain contingencies in place.

She'd never felt the need to mention them to anyone-for one thing, they made excellent blackmail material if she ever needed it, and for another, she'd seen no reason to destroy one of the best military leaders China had had in decades.

She had, of course, made sure to set up tripwires that would notify her if Leang activated them.

Now that she knew what Leang was up to, however, she needed to start keeping a more careful eye on the Politburo. Fortunately, that wouldn't be hard—those old men knew nothing of electronic device discipline.

That, however, could wait for a little while. Right now, she needed to turn her attention to more pressing concerns—namely, infiltrating the Russian and Indian communications networks. The former had been easy to penetrate, although that hadn't surprised her. For all that they were good at cyberattack, their cyberdefense was risible, and their network would be hers whenever she wanted to make it so.

The Indians, however, had proven to be much more difficult. In fact, she'd barely been able to get into the systems they'd linked to the Russians. Their firewalls were thick, and their trackers were almost as good as the American ones that had hunted her people down after their attempted penetration of NORAD, which meant that she didn't have time to find a way to undermine them.

This would limit Wu's options, and hers, which was annoying but not fatal.

Getting into the enemy's information systems was also something that she could actually do something about it, unlike Leang's machinations, which when combined with the fact that she had to deal with it now meant she needed to make it her primary focus.

She only hoped Wu would be able to do the same thing when it came to breaking through the blockforce, and not be distracted by thoughts of what Leang was doing. She needed him to break through to China.

* * *

Wu Tsien was in what one of his friends at the Academy had to referred to as "battlethought." He wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't reached it before this point, but he really wasn't devoting any time to contemplating that, largely because his brain wouldn't let him.

This had happened to him before, at Dushband and Hamburg, so he knew what was going to happen. Everything was going to be focused on defeating the enemy in front of him, with no thought for any other considerations.

The march to Ashgabat was going far better than he expected. The patched-together lead brigades were taking heavier casualties and moving slower than their more cohesive counterparts would have, but they were breaking through all the same, and he anticipated taking the city within two days.

Once they made it there, the intelligence indicated that the only thing remaining in their path, aside from a small force in Bukhara, would be the Russian and Indian troops who had cut them off from any resupply from home. That still left the question of which way they should go.

There were three options. The first was to go to the north, the second down the center, and the third was to go to the south.

The third he had dismissed almost immediately. Yes, it was the unexpected choice, being the indirect route. He had no desire to go through Afghanistan, and the roads between Bukhara and Dushband were a sick joke for any force larger than a brigade. Further, the Indians seemed to have spent their time well, and while they were having difficulty getting supplies through what had been Pakistan, he had no desire to try fighting his way through Dushband.

The first and second options were more appealing, although he really should group them as two branches of the same option, since they both involved taking Samarkand.

That was where the Russians and Indians had linked up, and while the two countries had always been close, seams between different units were always a vulnerable spot, even when the units were from the same country. Between those of different countries-well, he remembered one exercise when he'd managed to catch the seam between a Chinese and a Mongolian unit. The breakdown had been impressive.

That Black Lotus had managed to hack the Russian communication network made the possibilities even better. If she could mess with their transmissions, the Chinese could exacerbate the inevitable difficulties that arose when soldiers who had different first languages tried to talk to each other.

That left the question of where to go after that, though. The central route would take them through Kokand to either Bishkek or Kashgar, while going to the north would take them through Tashkent and Symkent to Bishkek. Once they got to Bishkek, they would have to push through Almaty to Ili-and once there, he anticipated, they would be home free. No one wanted to actually invade China.

Going to the north, while more direct than the south, was still an unexpected option, and he had a lower opinion of Russian capabilities than many of his fellow generals, especially the older ones, still influenced by their memories of the border wars back in the 60s.

China had grown since then, no longer relying purely on masses of poorly-armed infantry and light artillery to overwhelm the enemy, and the Russians had not improved the quality of their troops or tactics much from those days, from what he could tell. Based on the reports from Bishkek, said quality might have gotten worse.

The center, however, gave some other opportunities. He could probably continue to exploit the communications and coordination issues that would ensue between the Russian and Indian forces. It was also a more direct route.

However, it was also much more defensible than the northern route, due to the terrain and the fact that the road from Andijan to Bishkek was far too narrow for comfort.

For that matter, if he went to the north, Black Lotus could probably crash the Russian networks completely. It would also make it far more difficult for the Indians to interfere with the march-Tashkent was little more than a hundred kilometers north of Khujand by air, but that could make a lot of difference. And, if the Russians couldn't communicate, the Indians would have to do their targeting on the fly, which would increase the risk of friendly fire.

He smiled thinly. That would worsen relations between the two countries, for a certainty.

Yes. Samarkand, Tashkent, possibly Bishkek, and then Almaty.

Diversion? Yes. Launched second-they would expect his first attack to be the diversion. How far to try and push?

He looked at the map. Two divisions, weaker ones. That would be enough. Angren, Namangan, Bishkek. That would make it look like he was feinting to the north, then going through the center. The Indians would hit them, but he suspected they would survive. He might want to take Khujand, though.

Yes. That should do it. As long as his rearguard was past Khujand by the time the Indians really pushed for Tashkent, his men should be out of their reach.

Now. How was he going to take Samarkand?

* * *

Jarmen Kell sat atop a ridge and waited.

He wasn't sure what he was waiting for, besides perhaps the order to go ahead and begin the attack, but he was waiting for something.

Getting into the area had been one of the easiest infiltrations he'd ever done-certainly easier than the one onto the American West Coast. The Azeris had turned a blind eye to the border crossing, the transit through their country, and their loading and leaving from the port at Lankaran-Arslan had explained the situation, and they had nearly fallen over themselves in their eagerness to get Juhziz out of the way. The man had a serious grudge against the Azeri government, and having him separated only by the Caspian Sea was cold comfort to the men in Baku.

Not that Kell cared, especially, except as it affected the mission.

They'd then gone north from Lankaran, hugging the Azeri shoreline until they were nearly at the Azeri-Russian border, and then turned east towards Kazakhstan, landing twenty kilometers south of a small town called Kuryk.

From there, they'd split up into smaller groups and made their way here, dodging what few patrols Juhziz had put out and any civilians they saw. The latter had been more of a problem than the former, for all the groups-the demolitions expert had thrown nearly everything into blocking the Chinese retreat, for reasons Kell did not understand.

Again, not that he cared, except as it affected the mission.

Well, it also offended his sense of craftsmanship. If you were going to do something, you should do it well. Then again, Juhziz had always been the impatient type. The only time he really exercised care was when he was building his bombs. He'd always tended to substitute size of explosion for care in placement, which was understandable when time was short, but less so when you could take things a little slower.

That was yet another reason he liked working with Arslan. He understood these things.

At any rate, they had managed to get here without incident, less than five kilometers from Juhziz's headquarters, and so far had not seen a single one of his soldiers come anywhere near them.

Not that he minded-even if they managed to kill whoever came here before they got a message off, missing troops would certainly be noticed and looked for-but it offended his sense of craftsmanship. He would have had someone checking this area every day.

Indeed, it had been almost a week, and the only sightings of Juhziz's men had been from the patrols and sentries he'd sent out.

There was also, however, a complication to consider.

The Americans.

He hadn't been surprised when Arslan had contacted him with the news that they were sending a strike team-after all, they wanted Juhziz dead as well.

It would make their mission more difficult, though, if they had to work around Colonel Burton and his men, particularly destroying Juhziz's files. If he'd thought they would be at all organized, he'd have told the men to remove and then burn only the things that could come back on the ELA.

Given what he remembered about the man's headquarters, however, he was certain that the only way to be sure would be to destroy all the files, and possibly the entire headquarters.

That last would not be hard. The man liked having his explosives very close at hand.

The question now was how, if they showed up, he could use the Americans while making sure that his men were the first in. And, preferably, taking out the files while getting as few of his and Burton's men killed as possible.

He would really rather not repeat that fight with Burton.

He brought up his mental map of Juhziz's base. Now, where could he use some demo and Pathfinders?

* * *

General Rodall Juhziz was an extraordinarily unhappy man. Absolutely nothing had gone right in his plans. Nothing!

Well, that was an exaggeration. His plan to bleed the Chinese relief force had gone quite well, with minimal casualties to his men and some truly spectacular successes.

After that, however, things had all gone wrong. The IRGC had betrayed him as well as Kassad, although he hadn't suffered nearly as badly as the Prince, as evidenced by the fact that he was still alive.

Even so, that had still cost him precious men and supplies. The Russians and Indians had also proved resistant to his overtures, issuing shoot on sight orders for his men, even.

And then, instead of giving up, this General Wu had decided to fight his way back to China.

That had been the deciding factor. Wu had been the one who had shattered the GLA twice, first in China and Tajikistan, and then in Europe. He would not let him pass, and he would show the world that if the GLA had chosen him instead of Deathstrike, he would have beaten that Chinese puppy.

And that wasn't happening. Wu was attacking with scratch forces made up of survivors of broken units, and Juhziz's men were still being slaughtered the moment they came out to fight in the open.

He shuddered to think of what would have happened if they'd faced whole and complete Chinese forces, and he yearned to tell his men to stand down and withdraw

But he could not. Honor would not permit it, and to retreat from this would destroy any chance of rebuilding. Better to bleed the Chinese while losing his men than to retreat in ignominy and let them pass unmolested. As long as the hard core remained to serve as a foundation, the GLA could rise again, as it should be.

Not with Kassad's puling about stealth and shadows, or Thrax's meddling with Allah's gift of life, or Deathstrike's megalomania, or Arslan's willingness to compromise the cause for his own gain.

It would be dynamite and fire that would reduce the arrogant West and East to rubble, and allow his people to take the place that they deserved, and bring all the world into the Dar-al-Islam.

Allah would permit nothing else.


	11. Chapter 11

Colonel Mikhail Chernov loved only two things in his life—Russia and his regiment.

When he had arrived at the 12th Guards Motorized Rifle Regiment, fifteen years ago, a new lieutenant, the unit had been a pigsty. The food was rotten, because the quartermaster was on the take. The pay was short, because the paymaster was on the take. Ammunition for training, parts for the weapons, and the weapons themselves were all short, because the armorer was on the take. Fuel, spare parts for the vehicles, and in some cases the vehicles themselves were short, because the motor pool was on the take. Finally, soldiers were short, because the officers were on the take.

So he'd gotten to work. He'd played the game, just in order to not make himself a target. His platoon had three or four phantom soldiers, they didn't train with live ammunition nearly as much as they should have, and there were always problems with the food.

But he'd taken the money that got him and used it for things other than his own gain. Better food, covering for his men's expenses, managing to get spare parts for their small arms at least, that sort of thing. The other officers had asked questions, of course, but he'd told them that he preferred to save his money, which was odd but not unheard of. The wisdom of this had been proven when one of his fellow lieutenants failed to make two payments to the Mafiya, and had to resign due to a lack of kneecaps, followed within a year by lack of breathing.

He'd been promoted to captain within two years, thanks to a combination of efficiency and bribery, and had followed the same rules for his company that he had for his platoon, once he was able to find subordinates who thought as he did.

He'd continued that pattern until he rose to command the regiment, five years ago, now. He'd had to arrange a few accidents for corrupt officers who would not leave, but those had been few and far between. Which was good—that, too, was a form of rot.

He knew he would not be promoted further—no man got to be a general who wasn't on the take, and there were few who got to be colonels. But that just meant that he could run the regiment how he wanted it, and not worry about what would happen when he got promoted.

Russia had been largely unaffected by the war with the GLA, aside from a brief flare-up in Chechnya that had been ruthlessly crushed, which Chernov approved of, and the siege of the base in Tajikistan that the Chinese had relieved when they overran the GLA in Dushanbe.

He had not approved of that, or the Americans' meddling in what was Russia's proper sphere, but if they were willing to spend blood and treasure to kill Mother Russia's enemies, he could live with it.

He had not been displeased when the Americans withdrew from Europe—finally, Russia could take the place it deserved, as it once again liberated the continent from foreign occupiers, as it had during the Great Patriotic War. But then the Chinese had moved in before they could, and taken Russia's place as the leader of Eurasia.

That had rankled. And then had come the murmurings and the rumors. China wanted Siberia, either outright or with trade terms that would make it an effective colony of Beijing, and the oil there was one of the two reasons Russia could maintain its status.

Small wonder that the President had decided that the near enemy was worse than the far enemy—the Americans were inveterate meddlers, and wouldn't let Russia exert its proper influence, but they at least would not dismember the rodina.

He had, of course not known of this when he'd received the orders to march to the Kazakh border, and so he'd wondered why he was having to move his men thousands of kilometers east.

When the Americans and British had invaded Europe, he had wondered no longer, and had begun to chafe. He wanted to test his men against the Chinese—but he also knew that his regiment was one of the best line units in the army, and knew what might happen to the others.

His division had been ordered to take Samarkand, and link up with the Indians there. Two divisions had been ordered to Astana, and then to Almaty.

With his regiment in the vanguard, their objective had fallen in four days from the time they crossed the border. Astana had taken nearly a week, and the march had been shorter, and Almaty had taken a week and a half.

And now the Chinese were marching east, fleeing Europe and the Middle East.

Marching towards him.

There were no reinforcements, beyond replacements for the men and equipment they'd lost. Moving and supplying three divisions had taken up all the slack in the Army's transport, and beyond—several divisions, he'd heard, had been forced to give up many of their working trucks and tanks in order to fill in for missing or inoperable ones in the divisions going to war.

And even then, tracking the division's route across Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan was easy—every kilometer had seen a track break down.

His unit's record had been better-they'd had ten vehicles fall out the whole way, a miracle in his opinion—but the other regiments in the division had arrived here at half-strength due to maintenance problems, and still were only at two-thirds to three-quarters strength.

And the divisions in Almaty, from what he'd heard, were at about half-strength. Supposedly, they were sending one of those to reinforce the troops in Samarkand, but he wasn't sure if he wouldn't rather have no one to back him rather than those men.

He looked at his positions and sighed. He'd done the best he could. His men were entrenched, the vehicles all had primary and secondary fighting positions, the lines were fronted by mines and wire, and right now they were digging anti-tank ditches. He wasn't sure how they'd do against Overlords, but they should stop Battlemasters and Dragon Tanks, at least.

They would bloody the Chinese before they were ouflanked and overrun, that much he had determined.

And his regiment, his only child, would be destroyed, all for nothing.

* * *

George Thomas was in a position that he hated—waiting on other people to do things, and watching events happen that he had no control over.

The Chinese were through Ashgabat, now, and on their way to Bukhara. Once that fell, he would set Burton and his men loose, and finish the GLA once and for all, hopefully.

Then at least his men would be out of danger, and he could watch what happened in Central Asia with a more dispassionate eye. As far as he was concerned, let the Russians and Chinese fight it out. As to the Indians—well, he'd always thought that supporting Pakistan had been a big mistake. An alliance system based on Japan, India, and the US would keep China quite nicely contained. He would rather the Chinese not beat up the Indians too hard.

He had to admit that he was of two minds about whether he wanted Wu to succeed or not. If his army was destroyed on the Central Asian steppe, it would be a severe blow to China, both in terms of the loss of equipment and men and the loss of prestige. If, however, Wu made it to China, the Intel boys thought there might be a civil war.

As an officer in the United States military, he was okay with that.

As a soldier, he hoped Wu would make it through. He was a good commander, and deserved better than to die out there, whether at the hands of the Russians or his fellow Chinese.

His phone rang, and he looked at it and sighed. It was the US ambassador to Azerbaijan.

He answered with "No, we're not giving the move order yet."

"The president is getting antsy. The longer your men are there, the greater the chance of discovery, and he doesn't want that."

Thomas sighed. "Remind him that not only are we removing one of his enemies, but that we still haven't made any decisions about whether or not to recognize their recent acquisitions in what used to be Iran—and that we're fairly confident that most of the rest of the world will follow our lead."

There was silence on the other end of the line. "That's not your call to make, General."

"That's true. It's the President's. But how inclined do you think he'll be to help out someone who got in the way of killing Rodall Juhziz?"

"General—"

"This order was directly approved by the President, Ambassador, and he told me to do it this way." He decided to sweeten the pot. "Tell him he'll only have to hide us for another five days, at most. Surely he can do that."

He could hear the wince in the ambassador's voice. "He won't like it, but he'll take it."

"Good. Is there anything else?"

"No, General."

"Good day then."

After hanging up, he sighed in exasperation. Most FSOs meant well, and they wanted what was best for America as much as he did. But they tended to be far too sympathetic to the concerns of tinpot dictators, particularly when US military actions were involved.

His phone rang again, and he cursed under his breath. Who was it now?

It was the US envoy to the Turkish transitional government.

"Yes, what is it?" He asked, rather more politely. At least this one had some idea of where his actual priorities were.

"We may have a slight issue, General. General Arslan has informed me that, should the Kurds in southeastern Turkey decide to secede, he will not interfere."

"Why is that a problem?"

"In isolation, it wouldn't be. An independent Kurdistan will probably stabilize the Middle East—not that that matters much to the US now, but the potential spillover effects are significant. The problem is what it's going to do in Europe."

Thomas furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"The restored European governments have been trying to decide what they want to do about their borders. Some of them want to return to how things were before the war. Others want to take the opportunity to redraw some of the lines, Albania and Hungary in particular."

The general vaguely recalled some discussion about that, but he honestly hadn't paid it much attention. As far as he was concerned, that was not his problem.

"Why is this an issue, Larry?"

"Because now every nationalist movement is going to see this an opportunity to try and press their claims for a Greater whateverstan. The Albanians want Kosovo and part of Macedonia, the Hungarians want Transylvania, the Serbs want the part of Bosnia that's mostly Serb to be part of Serbia—it's a mess."

"In other words, my men are going to end up playing peacekeeper, is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes. The fact that the ELA forces mostly lost in the Balkans will make things easier than they might have been otherwise, but yes."

Thomas sighed. Wonderful. "Do we have an official policy yet?"

"No. I just informed the President ten minutes ago. He's calling a meeting of the NSC right now."

* * *

"This is a fine mess," Cavender growled.

Harrison had to agree with him. All the intelligence agencies agreed with Lawrence Napier's assessment of the situation—radical nationalism, already experiencing a revival thanks to the GLA and the Chinese, was about to skyrocket in Europe, and the US couldn't stop it.

He turned to the director of the DIA, Jonathan Lightner, who usually had a more solid grasp on reality than most of the other intelligence people. "Where is this going to be the worst?"

"The usual places, sir. The Balkans, Spain. Something might happen in Belgium, but it's unlikely. Even in Spain it probably won't be too bad, most likely just demands for more local autonomy. The Balkans could see some actual conflict, though—our sources indicate that part of the reason the ELA lost there so badly was because some of their leaders were hoarding resources for what would happen after."

Harrison grimaced. That seemed to be a longstanding story in the area.

"All right. We cannot have this liberation turn into a bloodbath. Agreed?"

The entire table nodded. The retribution against those who'd collaborated with the Chinese hadn't been nearly as bad as it had been against those who collaborated with the Nazis, but there had been some negative press out of it. Full-blown ethnic conflict in the Balkans...The consequences of that did not bear thinking on.

"Options?"

Secretary of Defense Roger Yates leaned forward. "I don't want an American-majority force stuck there. Our soldiers have already bled for Europe."

Cook nodded. "Public support for foreign involvement is still fragile right now. If the American people see their sons and daughters getting shot at playing referee in ethnic quarrels, it's going to go away."

Harrison nodded. The world was in a state of flux, right now, similar to the ones after World Wars One and Two. Whoever had a hand in managing the transition to stability would be able to shape things to their liking, more or less.

The United States would be the major player, on that he was determined, and that meant he had to keep the American people from deciding to pack up their toys and go home.

"A joint force, then. Thoughts?"

Lightner spoke. "We'll need to be careful with force composition, sir. For example, the Brits and French like the Serbs, and don't like the Croats. The Germans are the exact opposite. Old stuff from the World Wars."

"That assumes," Cavender cut in, "That the Europeans will be willing."

"They will be," Yates replied, "once they realize that the violence is likely to spill over into their countries."

Harrison looked over at Lightner. "Get me an estimate of which forces will work out where, and a list of probable flashpoints. I need it in two days. George, start feeling out the new governments in Europe about what they're willing to do, and get on the horn to London. Now, we need to move on. Have the situations in South America, Africa, or South Asia changed appreciably?"

Everyone shook their heads. Unsurprisingly, the South Africans were still holding out, largely because no one was really in any position to reach them, and they weren't in a position to reach anyone, although that would change once the carrier battle groups left the Mediterranean. Venezuela was in the process of putting together a new, non-Bolivarist government, though he didn't know how long that would last. Burma had folded rather quickly, when its ethnic minorities rose in conjunction with an Indian offensive. As to India...

"India is still keeping quiet about those Pakistani nukes, and they've been pretty silent about their plans for Pakistan and Burma—well, aside from this "Pashtunistan" concept," Cavender said, a little stiffly.

"I'll speak to the Prime Minister," Harrison replied, "I doubt he has any plans for conquest."

The truth was that he had spoken to the man immediately after receiving word that Pakistan's nuclear material had been secured. The plan, which Harrison had acquiesced to, involved a lot of border shifting, but he thought it would lead to a more stable region. As to the nukes—once the war was over, India would dismantle them and use the fissile material in its nuclear reactors and for experimental purposes.

He had not told Cavender this, however-the man was an old Cold Warrior, still suspicious of India's ties to Moscow. He also believed that the post-WWII borders were inviolate, a position Harrison understood but disagreed with, especially now.

"If there's nothing else, that leaves us with the Middle East and the Pacific. No change in the latter, from my understanding."

"No sir. The Koreans are still at high alert along the Yalu DMZ, but there's no sign of the Chinese moving in that direction."

Now for the real meat of this discussion. "Aside from the Kurds, what can we do about the Middle East?"

Lightner spoke. "Precious little. The current President of Iran might as well be the mayor of Tehran, and won't last once the Chinese leave. Iraq is just a mess. Syria's going to fall into civil war the moment the Israelis and Kurds get out of there, and the latter will snag the northeast corner when they declare their country. If we're lucky, they won't push any further down in Iraq than Kirkuk. And Kassad's death has put the factions in the Arabian peninsula at each other's throats. About the only thing we can do is support the Kurds, Jordanians, Lebanese, and Azeris to try and contain the problem." He paused. "The Turks too, though I doubt Arslan will need our help."

That was depressing, but not unexpected. And, now that oil wasn't really an issue, few Americans really cared about what happened in the Middle East. "And what of the New Long March?"

"Wu's forces are less than six hours from Bukhara. Once that falls, the only thing between him and China is the Russians and Indians."

"Good. I'll issue the order to have Burton and his men go to full standby. They should be in the air within the hour once Bukhara falls. What are Wu's chances of making it to China?"

Lightner moved his hand back and forth. "Decent. It all depends on how quickly the defenders can assemble a counterattack. I'd give him two chances in five."

That was better odds than Harrison would have given, but the fact that Yates didn't seem to disagree with Lightner indicated that he was probably right.

"All right then. We have work to do."

* * *

Bai leaned against the wall of the building behind him and took a moment to curse. If the GLA troops had _any_ sense, they would have withdrawn from the city. They had to know that his comrades had smashed their way through everything else Juhziz had thrown at them—why did they think they could stop them here?

That didn't really matter, though. What mattered was that Bukhara was a living hell of ambushes, demo traps, terrorists and bomb trucks, and his men were caught in the middle of it. He poked his head around the corner to look at their objective, then ducked back as a burst of gunfire came near to taking his head off, and cursed again. The Ark of Bukhara was an old fortress that effectively dominated the city, and they needed to take the place.

Unfortunately, the walls were thick and tall, and while the Inferno Cannons were doing their best to light the place up, dirt didn't burn very well. No, they would have to take the fortress the old-fashioned way. To make matters worse, there were only two ways they could get inside—the fortress gate, and a breach in the wall that had supposedly been made when the Russians took the place back in the 1920s, or so the lieutenant had said.

Well, there was also the possibility of using Helixes, but he would rather stay on the ground. There were Stinger Sites inside the place, as evidenced by the columns of smoke marking where two Helixes had been brought down. They'd attempted to use the Inferno Cannons on them, but it was nearly impossible to mark where the shells were falling, and, again, the fortress was mostly dirt.

Which was why he and his squad were here, waiting for the Iberian Dragon Brigade's Overlord platoon to arrive before they began their assault. Judging by the fact that the ground was starting to shake, that was going to happen very soon.

He turned and looked at his squad, what was left of it. Both Zhou and Chang had fallen during the fighting, as had one of the new men—what was his name—Song, that was it. And just from what he knew about his platoon, they were one of the better-off squads.

"Stick behind the Overlord. When we go in, find some kind of cover. Deng, Kung, watch our backs. It's going to be close in there. Stick together, watch each other's backs, follow my orders, and we'll get home alive."

That hadn't worked for Song, and while Zhou should recover, he didn't know whether Chang would survive his injuries—shrapnel to the chest was no joke. Still, his men believed him. What choice did they have?

He turned his head to look back up the street where the Overlord they were supposed to come in behind rumbled forward. The Gatling Turret on top of the thing was somewhat reassuring, at least, although he would have preferred a Bunker that he could have gotten his squad into.

On the other hand, usually the ones with Bunkers had specially-trained infantry assigned to them.

The Overlord fired, once, then twice, and the roar of the gun and the slap of the air stunned him for a moment as the Gatling began to chatter.

He shook himself and settled down, then poked his head around again to see what they were firing at, and smiled grimly as he went back into cover. The GLA had set up a three meter high barricade to cover the breach. Well, that barricade wasn't there anymore, and the Overlords were still crawling forward.

He turned to his men. "Check yourselves!" he yelled to make himself heard over the rumbling tracks and engine, and as his men made sure their magazines and rockets were ready to hand and their weapons were loaded he did the same. He had a submachinegun now, in addition to the pistol he was supposed to carry as a Tank Hunter—the Battlemaster commander it had been issued to didn't need it anymore.

The Overlord rolled by them, pitted and scarred from where tank shells and RPGs had bounced off or failed to penetrate, and he wondered for a moment at the fact that anyone _could_ kill one of the things.

But they could be killed, and his squad was supposed to protect this one.

The cannons fired again, followed by the sound of others, and he saw a machine gun fly up in the air from the top of the fortress wall. It was probably the one that had nearly taken his head off a few moments ago, and he bared his teeth.

Then the rear of the tank slid past the wall of the building they were using as cover, and he motioned his men forward as he slid in behind the thing. He was just glad that he didn't have to hunch over much in order to keep cover, and he kept his head up, looking for threats that could suddenly appear. There'd been more than one incident on the march where Terrorists had buried themselves in loose sand with a breathing tube and come out behind a unit that passed them by. Usually the men assigned to watch the rear caught them.

Usually.

As he looked over to the left, he saw another Overlord emerge from the buildings, and as he looked to the right he saw another. That meant that flank security wouldn't be as much of an issue as it would have been otherwise.

Unfortunately, it also meant he and his squad were dead if the GLA decided to concentrate on the center, and he willed the tank to move forward faster. At least once they got inside the fortress they'd be able to find some cover.

Hopefully.

But there was no such crossfire.

In fact, no one seemed to be even trying to kill them, it was all aimed at the Overlords. There was still a lot of fire coming over their heads, though.

He risked a quick look behind them, to see that the street they had come up had two Gatling tanks and two Battlemasters providing fire support.

No such thing as too much of that, in his mind.

They kept moving forward, and he thought it seemed far too easy. Surely...

"Get down!" He yelled, as some kind of instinct took over, and he and his men flopped to the ground as the world exploded in front of them.

When the dirt stopped pattering down around them he raised his head up, looked to his right and left and winced. Whoever had set up the ambush had seeded the Demo Traps too close together, and they'd all gone off at once.

That, however, had done the Overlord no favors, and from what he could see the thing was dead. He was surprised that he wasn't dead, and when he turned around he saw that while almost all of the rest of his squad was still alive, Deng no longer had a head.

The other Overlords were already moving forward, but he wasn't about to order his men to move out until they were in the breach. Once that happened, he'd order his squad in.

Until then, they'd stay right here.

* * *

Wu looked at the casualty figures and sighed. Bukhara was secure, but the cost had been high. The two consolidated brigades that he'd used to lead the march from the Iranian border to here were now weak instead of reinforced, and he knew that if he'd used one of his intact divisions that the cost would have been lower. On the other hand, weakening one of his divisions that he could actually trust not to snap like a twig in a pitched mechanized battle could cost him the whole army.

It still hurt, though.

As matters stood, however, he had three battle-ready divisions moving towards Samarkand, the consolidated divisions were dug-in covering the roads to Bukhara, and the rearguard divisions had just cleared Turkmenabat. Also, the engineers had worked wonders building the airfields, and all of his surviving MiGs were safely ensconced twenty kilometers outside the city.

It was nearly time, and he had to admit that he was concerned. He'd fought against heavy conventional forces before, but the fact was that GLA or Iranian fighters crewing hijacked American and Chinese vehicles that they barely knew how to operate were much easier to deal with than Russian and Indian soldiers who knew what they were doing.

The rest of the march would be the hardest battle of his life.

* * *

Reynolds was extremely unhappy. Once they'd kicked the Chinese out of Europe, he'd assumed that he and his men would be replaced by fresh troops—perhaps National Guardsmen and a couple of the "Security Force Assistance Brigades" that President Harrison's predecessor had ordered set up after the great retrenchment.

It wasn't just that he wanted to go home—the fact was that the Guard would have been better for occupation and stabilization duty than his men. He'd rather have his soldiers for the battlefield, no question, but the vast majority of them were eighteen to twenty-four years old, with only the skills that the military had taught them and what they'd picked up in high school. Which meant that they could landscape, do basic repairs, clean weapons, and kill people efficiently. In a Guard unit, however, the average age was higher, and the skills more varied, which meant they could address more local needs than just security, and were less inclined to create disciplinary problems by chasing the local women and binging the local booze.

To make matters worse, they were in Transylvania, where the women were attractive, the booze was excellent, the Romanians and Hungarians didn't like each other much, and the announcement that Turkey was going to let the Kurds have their own state had only increased the agitation to give Transylvania back to Hungary.

All of this served to explain why he was talking to the mayor of Timisoara about how they were going to keep a riot from breaking out. The Hungarians had come out to demand either increased autonomy or a return to Hungary, the Romanians had come out to counterprotest, and two of his men had gotten tangled up in the mess.

He really wished he had a Guard unit. Someone would know how to deal with this sort of thing. His only training was in how to deal with the mob once it brought out the AKs and started killing people, and boiled down to "use their guts for track grease."

That would be...counterproductive...in this situation, but right now the only thing he could think to do was to take the men he'd brought over here and drive their vehicles between the two groups of protestors to try and keep them from deciding to ruch each other.

At that point, all it would take would be one nervous private overreacting to an innocent gesture, or one nutjob deciding to take a shot at the foreigners keeping them from resolving their dispute, and all hell would break loose.

The mayor, unfortunately, seems to be under the impression that his men were superhuman.

"For the last time, sir," Reynolds explained, "neither I nor my men are trained to do more than provide actual policemen with backup. Your people have to go out there and keep this thing under control."

"You don't understand!" The mayor cried. "We had to replace everyone who was a policeman while the Chinese were in charge. Some of them we might be able to bring back once people remember that they didn't toady for the slants," Reynolds winced slightly, reminding himself that Europeans were as racist as they believed Americans were, "but right now they're all either new or rusty."

That was information that he hadn't bothered to share, and Reynolds decided to play a hunch.

"How long have you been mayor?" He asked.

"Since the slants left. About three weeks. My predecessor was, ah, friendlier with them than he should have been. His removal was...precipitous."

"Which means what?"

"He went headfirst through the window of his office. Four times, until he landed right."

Small wonder this one was so nervous.

"Let me talk to your chief of police, chief constable, whoever. We can come up with something."

"Thank you. I'll get him immediately."

As the Mayor went to go find whoever was in charge of the police force, Repynolds turned back to look at the hostile crowds in the square. Help couldn't arrive soon enough.

* * *

Germaine looked around the walls of the warehouse for what, if he'd been keeping count, was four-hundred and ninety-seventh time since he'd arrived there, and sighed. It had been nearly a month since they'd arrived here, and everyone was starting to get cabin fever. In fact...

"Attention on deck!"

The Sergeant leapt to his feet as Colonel Burton stormed into the room like a hurricane.

"We've got the go-ahead! One hour to the choppers. MOVE!"

The sergeant smiled. Finally, they were out of here. And he'd be in on the kill of the last general of the GLA.

* * *

Kell looked up from the fire when he heard the man approaching.

"Jarmen, message from Baku. The Americans are moving."

Well, that certainly clarified things for them.

"Tell the men to ready themselves," he said to the others around him as he reached for his rifle. "We move in one hour. And we end this."

As his old comrades went to gather their men, Kell sighed. Soon it would all be done, and he could leave this behind.


	12. Chapter 12

Zhong was more than a little nervous. The last time a Chinese army had fought a Russian one, back in the 1960s, the latter had won quite handily, and had been on the offensive.

Now, they were about to try it the other way, which was considerably more difficult. General Wu, however, gave no sign that he was at all aware of this fact. Indeed, he seemed utterly calm and at peace with the world.

Zhong, however, knew better. She'd seen him in this state only twice before, at Dushband and at Hamburg, two of the hardest battles the PLA had ever fought. Both had been resounding triumphs, but they had also been relatively brief, with both only lasting three days. She'd seen the estimates for how long it would take them to reach home, and the most optimistic ones said that it would be at least a week.

And all the intelligence they were getting indicated that the Indians were at least going to attack the rearguard. At least.

Wu would have to operate in what she'd heard referred to as "battlethought" at least three times as long as he'd ever done before, and she knew as well as anyone just how wearing it was for him. After both Dushband and Hamburg, he'd functioned like he was drunk for two days afterward, and like he had a hangover for four days more. She didn't even want to think about what ten days of it might do.

For one thing, it could kill him.

Her mind shied away from that like a frightened horse. China needed him. His men needed him. Truth be told, she needed him.

There was nothing romantic in it, of course—for one thing, he was fifteen years older than she, and she preferred men slightly closer to her in age—but in many ways she thought of him as the uncle she'd never had and never realized she'd wanted until she met him. And she would miss him. Very much.

Of course, she thought, if the Russians or Indians got lucky and did manage to kill, she wouldn't miss him for long, because the mobile headquarters was not especially well-protected.

But right now, Samarkand awaited, and as the clock counted down to the beginning of the assault she waited to see if he would say anything, make any final adjustments to the orders.

But he did not, and she held her breath as the timer went from one to zero, and the ground shook like an Overlord was driving by as the artillery began to fire.

* * *

Luo smiled as he looked out at what lay in front of him. The Russians defending Samarkand had obviously at least tried to set up good defenses-in fact, they'd actually done quite well, in some places. When they actually tried, there were few armies in the world that could dig in like the Russians could.

Fortunately, it was also fairly obvious that some of them had only started trying in the week since the General had led the Chinese out of Tehran. And his men were about to strike at one of those units.

He nodded as he looked through the night vision binoculars. It was a tank battalion in front of him, not an infantry one. They probably had at least some infantry there, but he was far more worried about hidden anti-tank missiles ripping into his engines than he was about tank shells scratching his front plate.

Then he saw the artillery begin to land, and frowned. Very few of the rounds were landing on the frontline defenses. Why weren't they...

Then he caught something cross the stars out of the corner of his eye, and he followed the MiG formation. Of course. The artillery was blowing holes through the Russian AA so the planes could deep strike their rear areas.

He rather hoped they were targeting the Russian airfields. He was perfectly fine with attacking an enemy who couldn't put missiles through the top armor of his tank.

Of course, the Gatlings would help in the case of air attack, but they usually didn't bring the plane down until it had launched its payload, or so the survivors from Europe said. Which, while it meant the aircraft would not make a return sortie, also meant it would likely hit its target.

His thoughts broke off as the artillery began to land on the Russian positions immediately to his front, and he turned on his radio as he lowered himself into the turret.

"Execute," he said simply, and he swayed as the Overlord began to rumble forward. He wasn't in his battalion's frontline, but he was with the follow-on units, and he knew that the theory was that he should be further back.

However, he wasn't going to take one of the precious Overlords out of the fight completely, there were no command vehicles available, and as far as he was concerned, a battalion commander needed to be up close and personal, especially for an attack like this.

The muzzle flashes ahead would have lit up the darkness if he hadn't switched the viewing blocks to night sights, and he cursed as he saw one of his Battlemasters' turrets go up in the air. He could already see a few pyres that indicated that the Russians were taking losses as well, but he only had a short battalion, and the Russians likely had a full-strength one—reconnaissance indicated that it was no longer possible to trace the Russian line of march here by looking at the broken-down vehicles, although some of that was due to the locals making off with the vehicles, or so intel said.

The Overlords, however, were what was drawing most of the fire, which was a large part of their purpose, and were shrugging it off quite well. He heard and felt the clang as a round skipped off the front glacis plate, but the tank was unharmed, and he left the matter to his gunner, who was already traversing the turret. He needed to keep track of the battle, and liked what he was hearing so far.

Nobody was falling out or holding back, and the units to his right and left were pushing forward as well. Now, less than a hundred meters and...yes, good. The frontline had come to a halt, and the infantry were already dismounting as the tanks provided fire support. It would not be long before they broke through, as long as the Russians didn't throw a counterattack in right here, or have some kind of hidden troops lying in ambush.

Given their performance so far, he doubted it.

* * *

Chernov sat in his headquarters and waited for the hammer to fall on him and his men, and wondered why he was waiting for it instead of experiencing it. He could hear the artillery falling and the sounds of fighting to his left, but he was on the far right of the defenses, and he had no idea why the Chinese weren't at least trying to outflank him.

Of course, if they did, they'd have a few surprises waiting for them, like the secondary positions that would let him refuse his line even further back than it already was, make the flank assault fall on empty air, and let him hit them in the flank.

Not that it would do his men or the defense any good in the long run, of course. Either the Chinese would flank him again, or they would break through to their southeast and attack from that direction. The only question was whether or not they knew about the precautions he'd taken with his communications.

The lights on the switchboard for every unit switched on for two seconds and switched off, the signal for "nothing to report," and he grimaced. He couldn't believe that he had been reduced to hooking up wires to an improvised device, but the thing couldn't be hacked and couldn't be listened in on. And he was able to communicate with his men, too, although his answers were much more limited.

Then again, there were only four commands he planned on giving in this battle, at least to the frontline units: fall back to the second line, hold until reinforced, hold until otherwise ordered, and full retreat. He was fairly certain that he wouldn't be issuing any other orders to them. The reserve was a different story, which was why it was within a half mile of his headquarters. Their orders would be given by colored lights, and were also fairly limited: cover the retreat, counterattack, move to the secondary line, or full retreat.

Once they had to move, of course, all these preparations would be worthless. But if they helped him kill a few more Chinese before he died, it would be well worth the effort.

Then the lights for the northern outposts and the right-flank battalion switched on and off twice. _Movement in front, heading our way._

He responded. _Hold until otherwise ordered._

He frowned then, as a thought occurred to him. Why hadn't he received any requests from Division about his status?

He shrugged. He could probably fight the battle better without their help, anyway.

It did make him worry, though.

* * *

Black Lotus stretched and arched her back, smiling like a cat as she looked at her computer screen. She'd activated everything that she'd put into the Russian communication network, and it was now hers.

She'd completely cut some units, particularly the ones who seemed to have good commanders, and the Indians out of the loop altogether. The only way they would receive orders would be if the Russians were imaginative enough to remember to use couriers, and those were rather less reliable than radios.

Other programs were ensuring that no one who didn't sound panicked was able to get their transmissions through, and that the panicked transmissions were pushed out over the whole network. All the Russians were getting was either silence or news of failure, a demoralizing combination if ever there was one.

And there was a lot of the latter, she thought to herself smugly. Most of the Russian aircraft and helicopters had been caught on the ground, and while one in five of the Chinese planes hadn't returned, that was all right. For one thing, they were running out of parts and fuel.

Meanwhile, some of the Russian defenses had been nearly nonexistent. She wasn't complaining about that, as it meant fewer dead Chinese soldiers, but it did annoy her that apparently not everyone was capable of focusing their minds on the task at hand, even when death was imminent.

Of course, she thought as she listened to the transmissions, some of them didn't have minds to focus. She wasn't sure how some of these men had become officers, but she had to admit that there were more than a few Chinese officers who wouldn't be doing well under similar circumstances. Still, no PLA officer would have gotten drunk when he knew that the enemy was within striking distance—especially if he knew that the enemy was going to attack soon, because he had to if he wanted to survive.

There was, however, a new wrinkle. The Russians were expecting reinforcements. Somehow, they'd managed to scrape up the transport for another armored division, and they were flying an airborne division into Tashkent.

The armored division was just crossing the border from Russia into Kazakhstan, which meant that if Wu pushed it wouldn't be able to get in his way. It might still attack the column, but she was fairly confident that they would be beaten off.

However, that airborne division in Tashkent could be trouble, although she was surprised that the Russians were willing to commit that force. She understood that they wanted to keep China from pushing up into Siberia, but in the long run China could afford to lose all of the soldiers it had committed outside of its borders more than the Russians could afford to lose five divisions.

Then there was India. She still couldn't get into their networks, but she had been able to listen in on some of the communications between them and the Russians, and there were at least four divisions that would start moving once Moscow asked for reinforcements, in addition to the one dug in south of Samarkand.

That, however, would require Moscow to know what was happening to its soldiers.

She smiled thinly.

They almost certainly knew something was wrong, but they almost certainly didn't know what. They really should not have put their satellite communications on the same network as the rest of it. It would probably take them at least a day to actually ask the Indians for help.

And the longer it took for the Indians to move, the harder it would be for them to catch up with the army.

* * *

Wu leaned back in his chair and looked at the map carefully. The Russian line was about to crack in multiple places, and they still hadn't moved their reserves forward. Black Lotus had done her work well. The Russian right was still in place, but he wasn't worried about that. He'd leave them a line of retreat, and they'd withdraw once they saw their support evaporating.

He looked carefully over at the seam between the Russians and the Indians, where he'd thrown an entire brigade into the fight. They'd shredded the Russians, who had been extremely slack in preparing their defenses, and the Indian counterattack had been slow and weak enough that his men had been able to throw it back with ease.

To make matters even better, whoever was in command of the Indian division wasn't particularly aggressive. Once that counterattack had failed, he'd moved up two of his reserve battalions to set up a defensive line, and had them dig in. He hadn't made a single move otherwise, and Wu suspected that he wouldn't until he received direct orders from New Delhi to do so.

The real question was whether or not he should keep using the troops that he'd already committed, or throw in one of the follow-on divisions.

They weren't especially disorganized, but there had been some inevitable intermingling, and even those Russian units that were crumbling had elements stubbornly holding on. Further, while the reserve units weren't moving, they had deployed out, and were ready for a fight.

He tapped his chin. Based on the communications he was receiving, none of the battalions he'd sent forward so far had taken more than twenty percent casualties, and only two of the eighteen battalions had taken even that many. Those rates would go up, of course, especially if he ended up having to fight those reserves in Samarkand, but that was…acceptable.

Besides, that information Black Lotus had just sent him did not fill him with joy.

The Indians were more willing to fight than he thought they would be.

He hadn't expected them to just let him bulldoze their oldest ally into the steppe and go on his way home. He also hadn't really expected them to make a serious bid to try and stop him.

And that was what they were going to do.

He would have preferred to try and outrun them, but that wasn't going to happen. It would take his men another day to clear out Samarkand, and three days to finish going through the city. Tashkent would also take some time, and there was the fact that the Indians could cut the chord of the arc he had to travel by going through Dushband.

Whoever he sent to Kokand might have to make it a last stand. The question was whether what had happened in Islamabad would give their frontline generals, as opposed to their superiors in New Delhi, pause.

He hoped so. But hope was a weak reed.

He thought furiously.

* * *

Germain was as happy as he could reasonably expected to be. First, he was off of the Chinook he'd flown across the Caspian Sea in. He could handle flying in a helicopter over land. Over water was a different story.

Second, there was the prospect of imminent action. Finally, he had a chance to release the nervous tension of the past two weeks.

Third, he was fighting the GLA again. The Chinese were his country's enemies, for sure, but that was his problem because he was a soldier, not because of any personal animus-well, he'd developed some of that when he'd seen the wreckage they'd left behind, but there wasn't much of it. The GLA, though, were his enemies, on a very personal level, and killing them would be quite satisfying.

Even so, there were some issues. First, he didn't think much of the weather. He'd never much liked dry and windy places, and this part of Turkmenistan was both.

Second, the Chinooks were still here. While it was good that they wouldn't have to wait for hours to load once they were done, the big helicopters were vulnerable to anything as long as they were on the ground, and he didn't like the thought of his ride home exploding.

Third, and what he'd just found out, there was somebody else here, and he didn't know who they were or why they were here.

He'd been scoping out Juhziz's base when he'd seen someone move between him and the outpost that kept him from moving in closer. At first he'd thought that it was one of Juhziz's men, but then he'd seen him move like he was trying to hide from the outpost as well.

He'd followed him back with his scope, wondering if he was a local scavenger or something, until he made it back to a spot out of sight of the outpost where another man had waited. The two had talked then, the first pointing toward the base every few seconds. When he'd finished, the other man had nodded and moved while the first man had settled in to wait for...something.

He didn't know what.

What he did know was that this was a very unwelcome complication.

* * *

It was a good thing for Mahmoud, Kell thought, that he did not believe in shooting the messenger. If he did, the other man would have a bullethole where one of his eyes had been.

As matters stood, however, he had to think about what to do about this very unwelcome complication.

The first option, one borne from a lifetime's habits, he rejected almost immediately. Attacking them was the worst of all possible options-for all that the men he had with him were the best the ELA had to offer, attacking American special forces with less than five-to-one odds and from anywhere other than ambush was a quick way to defeat.

The second option, withdrawal, he also rejected. While Juhziz might be willing to destroy his files if it looked like his base were going to be overrun, he or one of his subordinates might offer them in exchange for leniency. And Juhziz knew far too much himself. No, he had to die as well, and the Americans might have a capture order.

That left either working with them, attempting to launch the attack before them, or striking shortly after they did. Each had its own set of risks. Working with them would significantly increase the odds that someone might let something slip-and for all that Colonel Burton was a mountain of muscle, he had a working brain. Waiting for the Americans to attack, and then attacking on their coattails, however, upped the odds for a friendly fire incident considerably, when a force clad similarly to the force they were attacking approached their rear. Going in first would increase their casualties, but also offered the best chance of completing the mission they'd been assigned-and, as long as his men knew the Americans would be coming on their heels, it would be easy for them to tell the difference between them and a hostile force.

Kell gave a quick nod. Right, that was the plan. Now to carry it out properly.

* * *

Ranjit Chamnadgar had never been a patient man. Now he paced the floor in Dushband, cursing General Aditya for a fool. The man should never been assigned to command the forces helping the Russians hold Samarkand, for he was far too prone to find excuses for inaction than reasons to act, and working with allies like the Russians gave him all too many opportunities to do that.

He'd had a point, admittedly-the Russians would likely have fired on troops suddenly entering their positions, no matter who they were.

On the other hand, it should have been obvious that the Russians were no longer in their positions, as the sounds of firing moved further and further to the north of the original Russian positions.

That thought, however, had not occurred to Aditya, which was why he had not moved for to twelve hours, until the Russians had finally managed to get a courier through with a request to move urgently to their aid, as they were hard-pressed to hold the city.

That had gotten even his slow behind moving, but the delay had been extremely costly. By the time his men had managed a full-scale counterattack, the Chinese had dug into the former Russian positions, and had seen them off with almost contemptuous ease.

No one was entirely sure what the Chinese casualties had been, but the lead Indian brigade had been wrecked, and the lead battalion of the second brigade had been badly damaged before Aditya had called off the attack, and they had gained a kilometer of ground, if that much.

And he was still stuck here in Dushband, on the off chance that the Chinese might come through this way, which he knew they would not. Oh, Wu would certainly feint in this direction, but he was far too canny to come this close to the airfields in Kabul, especially over the narrow, winding roads of the mountains. Chamnadgar knew that Wu knew how easy it was to ambush people on said roads, since it had happened to him when he took this city from the GLA.

That was why he'd told his staff to begin making plans to push over the mountain roads themselves, in order to attack the Chinese column from the flank, somewhere along the line. Hopefully, his superiors would be able to coordinate well enough that he could hit while the divisions from the south attacked the Chinese rearguard, and the Chinese vanguard was trying to fight through Tashkent.

He wasn't anticipating being able to destroy the column, mind, although if the opportunity presented itself he would take it. No, he wanted to be able to withdraw once his force finally lost momentum and had to choose between retreating or being crushed under Overlord treads.

Somehow, however, he doubted that would happen. It would require far too much good sense.

* * *

Reynolds was growing more and more worried. Incidents like the one in Timisoara were increasing all over the Balkans. The Croats, Serbs, and Bosnians seemed ready to try and finish the Yugoslav wars, the Albanians were looking to pick up Kosovo, and Hungary and Romania were all set to fight over Transylvania.

Which was why he had his men on high alert, and why he was sending messages asking for reinforcements-specifically, MPs. Unfortunately, all of the divisional and corps MPs were busy, and he had only an extra platoon coming his way within the next 24 hours.

More were supposed to be coming from the US and Britain, but that would take a week or more, and he could sense that whatever was happening would break long before then. It was going to be violent and bloody, and he knew that people were going to die.

The only question was how many, who would start the killing, and whether or not they would do something that would allow him to intervene.

He really wished that the question was how he was going to attack a dug-in Chinese armored battalion. That, at least, was something he'd trained for.

That wasn't going to happen, though, and he was sitting at his desk, waiting for the news that would tell him that the situation had just come to the point where he'd be sending his men out to kill and die.

"Sir," Lieutenant Garland said, "it's starting."

Reynolds came to his feet, wearily. "When? Where?"

"Looks like they struck nearly simultaneously, sir. The Hungarians came across the border at the same time as the Romanians started trying to clear out Timisoara." Garland looked stricken. "Sir? What do we do?"

"Do, Lieutenant?" He looked at him. "We do our jobs. Call out the troops. We're going to Timisoara, and we're going to stop it. And then, we're going to block the Hungarians, and keep them making the situation worse."

"Yes sir," Garland replied. "The reaction force'll be ready in ten, and the rest will be ready in an hour."

That was too long, but keeping the tanks running would have meant that none of them would have been operable. Now all he could do was hope that the hour's delay wouldn't cause a war.

Or a longer war.


	13. Chapter 13

Germain scanned Juhziz's base for threats, wondering what Burton was doing.

When he'd informed him of the new arrivals, and that they probably knew Burton's force was there, the colonel had only nodded, then issued orders to determine where their outlying patrols were. That had made good sense to the sergeant, since they needed to know if the unknown force knew where the Americans were.

Then, once Germain and his fellow Pathfinders had found that out, Burton had ordered a full redeployment to the opposite side of Juhziz's base from where the other force was most probably deployed, based on their patrol patterns. That had made some sense, as they didn't want to fight these people and Juhziz, but it did seem a little odd.

Then, he'd done something that made absolutely no sense to Germain. He'd completely revamped the assault plan in order to avoid getting between this other force and the base. Now no one was assigned to attack the north end of the base, and the two elements assigned there had been placed with the one meant to attack the headquarters instead. This was, frankly, bizarre, considering that no one knew who those people were.

He knew Burton knew what he was doing, but the Colonel hadn't bothered to tell anyone else, not even the XO, and the commander didn't usually keep his cards close to his chest like this. Something was up, and...

A fireball erupted from the north side of the base, and the Colonel's voice came into his earpiece and drove those thoughts from his mind.

"Go!" it said, and the Rangers, Missile Defenders, and Burton began to run forward as the Pathfinders began to service the targets they'd spent the past few minutes confirming. Specifically, they were looking for Juhziz's Demo Traps, and the premature explosions took out the men they were supposed to aid as explosive bullets found their marks.

As he took aim at another one, he noticed an extremely large explosion that were much further to the north than he would have expected. Was the other force attacking?

That, however, was not his concern at the moment, and he carefully aimed and squeezed the trigger again, blowing another half-dozen terrorists to Hell with a single shot.

* * *

Kell grinned as he racked the bolt back on his rifle and the incendiary cartridge spun out of the chamber. Juhziz never was very good about keeping explosives sequestered. In fact, he tended to leave them lying around everywhere, which he suspected was the reason why the fuel storage dump had gone up so...enthusiastically.

RPG rounds flew out into the night, blowing out the Demo Traps and Bomb Trucks that would have killed his Rebels and Hijackers if they had charged forward like they would have in the old days. The motor pool was their main target, and as the defenders who'd managed to avoid getting caught in their own demo frantically tried to reach their assigned posts in ones and twos and sometimes threes, Kell's men were the scythe against the wheat.

Satisfied that the attack was going as planned, he started moving down the slope towards the base. Things were going to go wrong, though. The Americans had apparently decided that, since his men were on the north end of Juhziz's base, they would go to the south end, which meant that, when the forces met, their guns would be pointed at each other.

The potential consequences of that for his men could be fatal, which was why he'd changed his plans at the last minute.

Instead of fanning out throughout the base to kill all of Juhziz's men, his men would secure the motor pool and take the north barracks under fire, while he'd take a group and seize the headquarters, hopefully before the Americans got there.

If they made it there before him, things could get...awkward, as they put it. He really hoped they didn't. The last thing he wanted to do was start a conflict in an attempt to avoid one.

* * *

Germain was servicing targets faster than he ever had in his life.

"Demo Trap! Ten o'clock high, by the crooked tent!"

Crack!

Palmer was calling them out as fast as he could.

"Rebel! Three o'clock midrange!"

Crack!

He'd never been as good at pointing him in the right direction as he was tonight.

"Running man, nine o'clock low, red truck!"

Crack!

Reload.

There'd been more than a few close calls.

"RPG, twelve o'clock high!"

Crack!

One of which had been a Terrorist that would have gotten Burton if Palmer had seen him two seconds later. But he hadn't, and no one had died because Germain and Palmer hadn't been good enough.

Palmer was silent, and Germain waited for him to call out another target. His next words, however, were "IR flare."

That meant the southern end of the base was now firmly in American hands, and it was time for he and Palmer to move in with the rest and provide some rear security, and he quickly shifted his rifle to travel mode as Palmer put down his binoculars and raised his rifle to his shoulder.

He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed to not be in on the attack on the headquarters building.

As they ran towards the burning base, though, he wondered if the fact that he wasn't sure meant he should find another line of work.

His term was up in a few months, after all, and his wife was making noises about how she wanted kids before she turned thirty and that said kids would need their father.

But there was no time for that now, and he should wait until the ride home to think about this if he ever wanted to have said kids.

* * *

Kell moved quickly, determined not to let the Americans beat him in. The motor pool was safely in his men's hands, and they'd cut off the north barracks from the rest of the base. Most of the rest of his men were holding in place, pinning down the surviving defenders with long-range fire, but he had a dozen of his best with him, most of whom he had known since the old days, and they were moving in like ghosts.

He was hoping that Juhziz's men would focus on the American attack, because that was the only way he'd be able to get in. The fact that his men were holding in place and not advancing would aid that goal, but all it would take would be for someone to notice that his men were coming and the mission would be reduced to failure with a couple of machine gun bursts.

A hail of gunfire and multiple explosions erupted to his left, and he sighed with relief at the sign that the Americans had started attacking the building. With any luck, Juhziz would have focused his men on the main entrance. It had taken Kell's men a little time to locate it, but the second entrance should be...there.

"Ruhollah," he said quietly, and the demo expert carefully placed small charges where the hinges should be as the others covered his back.

They fell back a few feet, and the Iranian triggered the charges. Nazar followed on the heels of the explosions and slammed into the door, Salim directly behind him, and it went down hard.

Their rifles rattled briefly, and Nazar called out, "Clear!"

"Move!" Kell yelled as he slung his rifle and pulled out a Skorpion. Sniping in those close quarters would be near-impossible, unless the hallway was much longer than he thought it would be, but he had to go in to make sure everything went how it needed to. Besides, his shooting skills weren't just good for long range.

Even so, he was still six men back from point, and he suspected that the others had done that deliberately. He would have words with them later. He was not _that_ old.

They slid down the hallway, the second man on each side checking the rooms the first man bypassed for enemies, computers, or paper records. Any rooms that looked like they might contain the latter two had the doors left open for when they bugged out-they'd throw some incendiary charges in those as they ran.

For a few moments, Kell thought they might have gotten in undetected under the cover of the firefight raging at the main entrance.

Then a rifle burst came within half a second of blowing Nazar's head off, and that fond wish went out the window. His men returned fire as they dodged into doorways, and the battle was on.

* * *

Germain was not an especially happy man.

First, Juhziz had decided to make his final stand inside his headquarters complex, which meant the Pathfinder really couldn't do much besides try and snipe incautious terrorists as the opportunity occurred, although at least he'd been pulled off rear security and assigned to help the main attack, which gave him something to do.

Second, he'd noticed a small group slide in from the north side of the base and disappear behind that side of the complex. He didn't know what they were up to, but the fact that they still hadn't tried to make contact told him that while they might also want Juhziz dead, their objective might not be quite the same as the Americans.

Third, thanks to a particularly well dug-in group of Rebels, his comrades couldn't circle around to that side to see what was going on. Instead, they were stuck trying to blow down the security door, which was recessed back far enough that there was a very narrow range of places it could be attacked from, all of which could be taken under fire from multiple positions. As a result, most of their effort was going into blowing out any windows or firing slits that a rifle or RPG poked out of, and trying not to get themselves killed in the process.

Palmer spoke. "Rebel, firing slit just below the two impact points."

Germain shifted his aim point, found the rifle barrel, followed it back slightly into shadows deep enough that he couldn't see even with night vision, and fired.

"Got him," Palmer grunted. "That's one firing bay down."

That, of course, brought up another issue. Juhziz had apparently learned from fighting the US military, and had hardened his base against flashbang attacks-at least that seemed to be the case, since each one only silenced one firing place, rather than two or three.

This was taking far too long, even though the volume of fire coming out of the building had slackened noticeably, and...

An explosion tore through the night, and Palmer called out, "Direct hit on the doors! The attack force is going in now!"

Germain was just glad that Juhziz hadn't thought to put the door behind a dogleg, and he whispered a quick prayer for the men going in there as he looked for another target. There wasn't much he could do now but that.

* * *

As Kell slammed another magazine into the Skorpion and a burst of rifle fire tore past him he took a brief moment to wonder if he should curse or bless Juhziz for his efforts to prevent the Chinese from reinforcing their colleagues in Europe. On the one hand, it had probably contributed to the fact that they hadn't even tried to counterattack into what had been the Occupied Zone, and since it would have been Turkey that bore the brunt of that assault as the battle was fought over its land, Kell was fine with that. On the other hand, it had also attracted the Americans' attention to the man, and if that hadn't happened, Arslan would have been able to dispose of the last GLA general at his leisure, rather than sending Kell on this operation.

Despite all that, however, this part of the operation was going better than he could have hoped. None of his men were dead, although Nazar was firing one-handed thanks to a bullet that had shattered his elbow, and Ruhollah was missing an ear thanks to a ricochet. Also, there hadn't been any cross-hallways that required him to leave men behind for security, and there hadn't been too many rooms that had records in them. This was a barracks section, and while that might have been a problem under other circumstances, most of Juhziz's men were fighting the Americans or were dead outside. It also appeared that they might be getting closer to Juhziz's quarters, since the rooms they were presently taking cover in appeared to occupied by higher-ranking members, as indicated by the fact that they only had one bed in them rather two or four.

However, that he could hear the sounds of fighting coming towards them meant that the Americans were coming closer, and he could not let them get to Juhziz's headquarters first. After all, the man might be coward or fool enough to let them take him alive. He doubted it—most likely the man had booby-trapped his inner sanctum quite thoroughly—but he'd seen better men than him fail to go to Allah on their own terms when something went wrong.

Besides, he really wanted to put a bullet between his eyes himself.

He turned to Ruhollah. "How many charges do you have left? The big ones."

"Two," he replied, "although with what I gave to the rest of you I could improvise another one." He thought for a moment. "It wouldn't be as good, of course."

Kell considered the situation for a moment. They wouldn't need more than one charge for the evacuation—there was a spot where it was obvious that the only thing holding the roof up was some timber bracing, and if they blew that out it would delay anyone following long enough to mask who exactly had been retreating up the tunnel. Hopefully.

It also looked like there were only two sets of rooms between them and some kind of antechamber, which was probably the one set in front of Juhziz's door. The man always had gone in for separating himself from his subordinates.

"Right." He looked at the others, then caught Salim's eye across the hall and signed out his plan quickly. His old comrade nodded, then turned to the men inside the room with him and spoke briefly. He looked back at him and nodded, and Kell slashed his hand down.

The grenades went out two seconds later, the ones they had been saving until the last, knowing that Juhziz would ensure that he was better protected than anyone else, and went off just as they went inside the rooms, thanks to Khalid and Omar cooking them, and the yells and screams from the defenders said they'd done their work well.

Rashid and Ansar followed quickly, moving before the men positioned in the antechamber had the chance to fire, and the bursts from their submachine guns silenced the men inside.

Then they repeated the process, before the remaining defenders had the chance to counter, and Khalid and Omar finished the survivors.

Kell moved then, out of the room and to where he could look out at the antechamber. Now he could hear the sounds of fighting even louder, and he recognized the flashbangs going off. It looked like the defenders on that side had been sucked down the corridor, though, which meant their path to what was presumably Juhziz's door was clear.

Now it was Ruhollah's turn, and he moved swiftly as well, making it across the space almost in less time than it would take to tell it, and put the satchel charge exactly where it needed to be on the door.

At least, Kell hoped it was where it needed to be, because Ansar and Khalid were already up there, and the others had fanned out to cover the other exits. He was a little surprised that they hadn't yet run into any booby traps.

The sound of the satchel charge going off was more than matched by the secondary explosion that blew the door off its hinges forward and into the middle of the room. Apparently Juhziz had set up one before his rooms, and he was glad that he and his men hadn't decided to something like kick in the door. That would have been...bad.

He moved forward as the three men by the door moved into the room, and he hoped that Ruhollah would be able to ferret out any other surprises that Juhziz had left behind. If he wasn't, he was about to be short some friends, and he had few enough of those already.

It would also make getting into Juhziz's inner sanctum a lot harder, since Mahmoud had the satchel charge.

He was getting sentimental, these days, which meant it really was time to retire. Come to think of it, he also hoped that his men wouldn't get themselves shot when they made contact with the Americans. If nothing else, it would be rather...awkward.

Then he heard the satchel charge go off, followed by yet another secondary explosion, and he prayed that his men had gotten out of the way in time.

He heard a high, shrill whistle, and he pelted forward, Salim suddenly at his side. That meant it was all clear, and when he arrived in the next room he saw why. Juhziz, as it turned out, had been good enough. He'd set himself up to blow up the moment anyone came into the room, and, judging from the fact that the door was splinters, take out whoever came in.

However, he hadn't rigged his files to blow, probably as one last dollop of revenge against those who had cast him out.

Kell looked at the remnants of what had been one of the three men he had followed into insanity and felt absolutely nothing at all.

"Set this place up to burn," he told Ruhollah. "Salim, take a picture, so we can show the general that Juhziz is dead. Khalid, Ansar, with me. We need to get out of here, quickly, before the Americans break through."

As the two men set to their task, Kell finally felt a certain sense of completion. Now all there was to do was...

"I thought it was you," a deep, rumbling voice that would have been welcome anywhere but here and now said. "So what are you doing here?"

* * *

Germain scanned the darkness, looking for threats and finding none. There was no longer fire coming from the headquarters, the few pockets of resistance outside had been finished off, and all that was left was to wait for Burton and the assault teams to finish up in there.

How long that would take he wasn't sure. All they could do was wait, but it did seem like it was taking longer than it should.

And who were those men who had snuck in, anyway?

* * *

Kell stood, looking carefully at Burton as the American looked back at him.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

"Juhziz was one of ours, once," Kell replied, making sure to keep the Skorpion aimed towards the floor, much as Burton had the M249 aimed towards the ceiling. "You put down your own dog."

"No," Burton replied. "There was more to it than that. If that had been all, you would have told us you were coming. So why..."

Kell felt heat on his back, and realized that the fire had truly caught in Juhziz's rooms, well enough that the information within would not be retrieved, and relaxed slightly.

"He knew things," the American colonel said quietly, and Kell reminded himself not to underestimate the man. "Things you wanted to make sure we didn't know. And you didn't want us to learn that he knew things you didn't want us to know. So you came here to both make sure he died and that his information was destroyed."

Kell said nothing. Burton had just summed up the situation perfectly, and he wondered what the American would do next.

He sighed. "What's done is done. But this is going to cause some major problems, down the line. You know that, right?"

Kell nodded. That was certainly true. But compared to the ones that would have occurred if the Americans had taken Kell and his information, they would be nothing.

"So what now?" Kell asked.

"Now?" Burton shrugged. "You're still our allies, so we won't do anything much except send you on your way. This mess is going in my report, though. What they'll say about this in Washington...who knows."

Kell nodded. He'd expected nothing less, and actually quite a bit more. This could have gone much, much worse.

Well, it still could go much, much worse, if one of his men did something stupid. Best to go before someone did. There was one thing.

"Colonel, Juhziz is dead. We have confirmation, and I can send you a picture if you'd like. Or you can take this back with you."

He beckoned Mahmoud forward, and the demo expert opened his now-empty knapsack where he carried his explosives. Well, empty except for Juhziz's severed head.

"Did you do that?"

"No, he did it himself when he blew himself up," Kell replied.

Burton nodded and turned to one of his men. "Garcia, take a picture."

As the soldier took out a camera, Burton looked back at Kell. "You can deal with the head itself."

He could live with that, although he hoped the thing wouldn't start smelling. Hopefully the trawler captain would have an ice chest or something.

* * *

"They're coming out," Palmer whispered, and Germain nodded. With any luck, they'd be able to extract before any of the locals showed up.

"The Colonel looks ticked," his spotter continued, and the sniper wondered why that was. "Doesn't look like they've got anything with them. No prisoners, no files...nothing."

That would explain it. Burton had been determined to get some good intel out of this one, and hopefully clear up some of the loose ends surrounding the final phase of the GLA war. Hopefully they'd at least gotten Juhziz and confirmed it.

 _Wait, what was that?_ he thought as a slow movement where there shouldn't be any caught his eye.

He tapped his spotter on the shoulder. "Our three o'clock. Over by that bus."

He moved quickly and smoothly, and didn't even hesitate before he said, "Sniper. Take the-"

Germain had already started moving his rifle in that direction, even before he'd gotten the go-ahead. The timing had been what had set him off more than anything else—the troops just happen to be coming out of the headquarters when someone starts sneaking around?

But now he knew he had a target, and he moved quickly, dialing back the magnification on his scope as he turned to meet the threat and there he was in the crosshairs taking aim at the men exiting the building and squeezed.

Whoever it was had apparently found his target, because his trigger finger tightened in involuntary reflex. At least Germain assumed that, because the gun went off despite the fact that its wielder had taken a .30 round to the head.

He looked around to see if there were any other holdouts trying to get in one last shot. He couldn't find any, but that didn't mean they weren't there, and he settled in to wait until Burton gave the order to pull out.

* * *

Kell breathed a sigh of relief as he and his men went out the side entrance. They'd dropped the incendiaries in the rooms that looked like they might have records, and they'd gone up quite well.

Of course, now they had to get out of here before the locals decided they wanted to gut them or Burton received orders to go after them, but that wouldn't be too difficult.

Hopefully.

As it happened, it wasn't at all. Juhziz's men were either dead, scattered, or demoralized, and they were able to bring everybody out, including most of the dead, of which there were ten.

Well, and one missing.

"Where's Mustafa?" he asked when they gathered together about a mile from the base. All were accounted for save him.

"I don't know, Jarmen," one of the his team said. "Once we were in place, he told us he was going to go and check for any holdouts. When he didn't come back, we sent out a couple of men in the direction he was going. They didn't find anything, so we thought he was with one of the other groups."

"There is one thing," one of the others said. "I heard a shot shortly after the Americans came out of the headquarters. It seemed odd, because the firing had already stopped. Perhaps..."

Kell knew exactly what had happened. Mustafa had hated Colonel Burton—the man had killed his father and brother during the fighting in Iran, and if he'd known they wouldn't get here before the Americans did he wouldn't have brought him along. But he was a good enough sniper that he hadn't been able to justify not taking him along.

And that decision had killed him, as sure as there were stars in the sky.

At least he hadn't managed to kill Burton, though. That might have had some serious repercussions.

"Do we go back for him?"

"No," Kell said flatly. "For that matter, we bury these men," he pointed to the corpses, "here. We'll conceal the bodies, take their personal things back for their families," those who had families, which was not common among the men he had brought for this assassination, "and then we head for the coast. Move."

His men obeyed, and they were headed to the coast by dawn.

* * *

Germain leaned his head back onto the wall of the helicopter and sighed. They'd lost half-a-dozen men killed, and four times that in wounded, some of whom would never fight again, and they hadn't gotten Juhziz alive or gotten any real intel.

On the other hand, they had killed him off, and with him the last chance the GLA had for resurrection, assuming Arslan didn't go rogue. That, however, was a worry for those higher—ranking than anybody he knew, and as the Chinook carried Burton's raiding force back to Baku, the sergeant fell soundly asleep as his thoughts turned to home, wife, and children, and he dreamed of teaching snipers.

 **A/N: Sorry about the delay. Work's been kind of nuts the past few weeks, with schedule changes and whatnot. Hopefully we can get to the end on schedule.**


	14. Chapter 14

As Chernov took a moment to look around his headquarters to make sure that everything was running smoothly, he found himself still somewhat surprised by the fact that he was still alive, and still had a headquarters.

This was, admittedly, less of a shock than it would have been a week before, now that he'd had time to get used to it, but that was only by comparison with the fact that he was now in command of what was left of the division. Casualties had been heavy enough that it wasn't much different from commanding his regiment, but that was still better than he had expected when the attack came in.

When the Chinese had started working their way around his flank, he'd been expecting them to push south and drive his men into Samarkand. Instead, however, they'd forced him to commit his reserves in order to avoid being outflanked, and then simply kept up enough pressure that he couldn't afford to move any of his troops to the south, where the main thrust of the Chinese attack had come through.

He'd only found out about that when the battalion on his left flank had started to withdraw, pivoting on his position, and had notified him that they were doing so via a courier riding a motorcycle he'd…appropriated…from one of the locals. That had confirmed what he'd suspected, that someone had trashed their communications systems, and the courier had mentioned that the last message they'd gotten from their regimental headquarters had been that the divisional headquarters was in the middle of a firestorm.

That had been a punch in the gut—for all that he'd despised Grigoriy Budenny and most of his staff, they hadn't deserved to go out like that. Hopefully they'd died in the initial explosion and not in the flames.

However, once he'd learned that the division had been decapitated and that the regiment to his left had gone away, that had told him Samarkand was almost certainly going to fall, and since the Chinese were already starting to go around his southern flank, he'd decided that it was time to get his men out of the trap they were in.

That had been more than a little nerve-wracking, but the Chinese had seemed disinclined to really push him, and he had been able to fall back by platoons without sustaining heavy casualties. In fact, all three of his line battalions were battle-ready, although he wouldn't have wanted to attack with them, and his support units were largely intact.

He also had the survivors of the two battalions closest to his regiment, as well as those divisional units that had been on the northwest side of the city. He'd tried to swing around to the northeast side of the city and link up with any other survivors, but the Chinese had pushed a column between his men and the rest of the division, his attempt to break through had run into such a heavy storm of fire that it hadn't even gotten a block from the jump-off point, and the troops pursuing his men hadn't allowed him time enough for any real maneuvering.

As a result, he'd withdrawn to the nearest good defensive position to the northwest, and dug in while his technicians tried to get access to Moscow again—or anyone who wasn't connected directly to the regimental headquarters. After two days, they finally managed it, and his worst fears had been confirmed. His was the largest force remaining near Samarkand. The rest of the two Russian divisions that had been deployed to the city were either dead, captured, or fleeing towards Tashkent as fast as they could, with the Chinese in hot pursuit.

The Chinese hadn't shown any desire to try and push him back, at any rate. Instead, they were simply rolling through Samarkand, and it was fairly obvious that they had little intention of staying.

He had considered attempting to march to reinforce the troops in Tashkent, something the commander there, General Rennenkampf, had ordered him to do the moment he mentioned the idea, but STAVKA had overruled that, likely because they suspected that his men would end up being grist for the mill rather than any actual help.

Considering that Rennenkampf was even less competent than Budenny, he found it difficult to disagree.

Instead, his orders were join up with the Indians advancing from the south, and lend his support to their forces as they attempted to destroy the Chinese army in its moving pocket, as such movements had been called during the Great Patriotic War.

He wasn't sure if it would actually end up working out, but he was just happy that his men weren't going to be thrown away in a pointless battle. That he was less worried about Indians doing that to his men than his own countrymen was an irony that did not escape him.

* * *

Wu didn't really feel anything at all, and while that worried him distantly, he had far more important things on his mind.

The Indians had been slow off the mark, but they were finally starting to move. Their General Chamnadgar, who'd shown himself to be one of their best during the fighting against the Pakistanis, was on his way towards Tashkent from Dushband, and might make it there before he did, depending on the roads and the weather.

More Indian forces were rolling north, and their aircraft were starting to dog his heels. The Gatling tanks were degrading their accuracy, and the transit times were such that any units a strike didn't outright destroy were usually able to be repaired by the time another came around, it still created delays as the line of march had to be reorganized and wrecks pushed off the road.

The Russian commander in the area, a General Begboyevoy, seemed to be utterly paralyzed with indecision as he dithered over whether he was willing to sacrifice his troops in Tashkent in order to try and delay Wu long enough for the Indians to catch up to him.

Since apparently he hadn't been issued any orders one way or another, or so Black Lotus was telling him, STAVKA was apparently doing the same thing.

Wu was not complaining about this. Looking at the map, however, it was fairly obvious why the Russians were dithering instead of committing to fight or retreat. They didn't want to leave the Indians to fight the Chinese alone, especially because by now the Indians were the senior partner in the relationship, even if the two parties hadn't fully realized that yet, but they also didn't want to experience yet another defeat at Chinese hands if the Indians weren't able to reinforce their troops in time.

He suspected they were also hoping that if the Indians managed an attack on his rearguard large enough to destroy it that he would pull back some of the lead elements and leave his attack force weaker. That, however, was wishful thinking on their part.

It would pain him to sacrifice the rearguard, but the important thing was that some part of the Chinese army make it made it home under its own power. If that happened, China could survive what was coming, and that was more important than all of the soldiers under his command.

It was certainly more important than his own life, and certainly his health.

Which was why he hadn't gotten more than three hours of sleep at a stretch since the offensive started. There was far too much that required his personal attention. Khujand had just become vital to his plans, and he needed to decide whether to reinforce what was almost certainly a doomed command or hope that they would hold for long enough.

* * *

Lin was worried about the General, as nearly everyone was starting to refer to him. By now, most of the troops would have obeyed his orders if he'd told them to turn around and march on Moscow or New Delhi. That, she knew, would have caused her to be worried that he might attempt to overthrow the Politburo when he got home, especially if they decided to arrest him, if he'd been anyone else. But she'd worked with him for years, and if there was a man in China who had fewer ambitions for political office, she hadn't met him, so she wasn't worried about that.

Instead, she was worried that he wouldn't do something if the Politburo decided to arrest him, because the idea that he would ever be a threat to them was so far from his mind that he probably hadn't even considered the thought that it might not be far from theirs.

And if General Leang was doing what Lin thought she was doing, based on what little information she was getting from some of her friends at home, the worries of the Politburo were being very carefully cultivated.

The problem was that she wasn't sure what she could do about it. She was just Wu's communication officer, and while she was very good at that job, she had no idea how she could use that to keep those jealous, paranoid old men in Beijing, most of whom Wu had saved after the attack on the parade, from killing the best commander China had produced in centuries.

Which was why, when General Huang had asked her to meet with him and a few other officers, privately, she'd agreed. She'd hoped they had some kind of plan.

And now that she was here, she was extremely nervous. She was the most junior officer in the room, being a major, and the next lowest ranking officer here was a colonel. She was also the only woman in the room, as well, and under other circumstances would have thought something very bad was going to happen to her.

Well, something very bad might still happen to her. It just wouldn't be here.

"Comrades," Huang said softly, and everyone knew that term had more than one meaning today, "we face the potential for grave decisions when we return home."

The entire room nodded.

"I have received word that the Politburo will arrest the General once we get over the border," he continued, "and this is not a rumor. I know the man who sent it to me, and he does not pass on information that he has not confirmed."

"Does the General know of this?" One of the colonels in the room asked.

"He does not," Huang said softly, "and I will not tell him. If he were to find out that the Politburo would engage in such betrayal, it might kill him. At best, it would give him more things to worry about, and he does not need that. Especially because he can't do anything about it." He paused, drew in a breath, and spoke the next words slowly and clearly. "Not by himself."

There was an intake of breath as he spoke the words that could see them all dead.

"How would they justify it?" one of the brigade commanders asked in disbelief.

"Misappropriation of the People's equipment, based on supposed irregularities when we confiscated that equipment from the Iraqis."

There was a low snarl at that. None of the men in the room doubted that any such irregularities had been the result of Iraqi malfeasance, and they knew the Politburo knew it as well.

"If we are not ready when they come," Huang continued, "they will take the General. And probably, us. If not then, then shortly after. I would prefer to avoid that."

The entire room nodded. None of the men there had actually experienced a reeducation camp—if they had, they wouldn't be in the army at all—but they'd all heard the stories, and all knew they didn't want to go to one.

"What can we do?"

"When we make it home," Huang said quietly, "we will have the largest concentration of combat power in China. All the other forces are garrisons, and therefore scattered, and with most of their firepower stuck in one place. Also, some of those units may find it difficult to move."

They all nodded at that. The Taiwan garrison was cut off from the mainland by American naval forces, and even if it weren't, getting two divisions from one port to another was not an easy undertaking.

Also...

"And that's the other thing. Those garrison divisions are no good in an open field fight, and we'll have the only real field force in the whole country, even if none of our divisions will be really combat effective by the time we reach home."

"What about the air force?" one of the others asked, and a man wearing the insignia of that branch spoke.

"The General is not only respected by you groundlings," he said dryly. "As to the strategic units...while the Politburo might order them to launch against targets within Zhongguo, the information I've received indicates that such an order might be...debated."

That, Lin thought, was as close as anyone was likely to come to outright saying "if such an order is given, it will not be carried out, and anyone who tries to carry it out will be shot."

"As to the Navy," the man continued with a shrug, "What of it? The only forces they have which could affect the outcome would be the strategic submarines and the Marines. The submarines will not want to fire, and the Marines are light forces, though they should not be underestimated. They'll also be somewhat divided."

"There's also the fact that the garrison divisions may come over to us, if it comes to that," Huang said. "The Politburo has done its best to keep our accomplishments quiet, but word has leaked through, and right now everyone in the underground news is praising us."

He looked around. "Let us all hope that the Politburo is wise enough that they understand that the General is no threat to them. If they are not, are all of you prepared to do what is necessary?"

There was a low chorus of agreement, and Huang smiled coldly. "Good. Major Lin," he said, and she swallowed as every eye in the room focused on her and she managed, somehow, to sit up straight.

"Yes sir?"

"As the General's communications officer, you receive all traffic directed to him, yes? And have access to all the communication channels to and from his headquarters?"

"Yes sir."

"Now, speaking purely speculatively," he went on, "suppose a message were to arrive that someone from Beijing was coming with an armed escort. Would it be possible for you to see to it that certain persons besides the General were notified, without other persons knowing of it? And it would it be possible for you to cut those other persons out of the communications net, without them knowing of it?"

Lin frowned and thought on that for a moment before she answered. "The first I can certainly do. The second would be rather more difficult, especially if you want them not to know it's happened—then it becomes impossible. There's always some kind of radio chatter."

Huang grimaced. "That would cut down the amount of time we had to work in, but you're right."

"It doesn't cut it by that much," one of the others pointed out. "They won't know what's going on, and as far as I know no one in this army is really for the Politburo as opposed to the General."

"Truth. Major Lin, should such a message as I described, or any like it, be transmitted to you, please notify General Song, General Guofeng, and myself. Someone will discuss who you should cut out later. I don't need to tell you to keep this to yourself, do I?"

"No sir," she replied. "I would never betray the General."

"Good. Now go. The less you know, the less that can be gotten out of you. Thank you."

As Lin walked out, briskly but unhurriedly, she wondered how it had come to this. Was China forever doomed to have its most successful generals forced to choose between rebellion or losing their heads?

* * *

Black Lotus hummed quietly as she sent her worms and counterviruses through cyberspace. Her subordinates were still keeping the Indians and Russians at bay, although they were beginning to report encountering attacks that seemed suspiciously like their own.

She wasn't surprised. The Politburo and General Leang had to be wondering what was going on in Wu's army.

Especially since she'd managed to track down all of their informers that were in a position to provide anything useful and re-route all of their messages to a server located somewhere in Central Africa, then set up a spoof program that sent messages saying that everything was normal.

There was really no need for the Politburo to know about that meeting Huang had decided to hold, after all. Especially because they were planning on arresting Wu.

Anyone stupid enough to plan to arrest and kill one of their best generals right before what was almost certainly going to become a civil war deserved whatever they got. Especially when that general had shown no sign of being anything but a loyal Party member and son of China.

She frowned then. That was it, she realized. The Politburo feared that he would decide that his duty to China superseded his loyalty to the Party, because their loyalty to the Party superseded their loyalty to China.

She felt a cold chill as she realized what she'd just admitted to herself. It wasn't as though she hadn't already crossed the line into outright rebellion, but admitting that the system she'd given her life to was more about the power of the ones in charge than the good of the nation it ruled had a certain finality to it.

And admitting that the system and the nation could be separated went against everything that had been drummed into her from girlhood. But…it had not been her who had decided to throw away all of China's gains in an effort to avenge the Century of Humiliation by humiliating others. It had not been her who had attempted to rule lands far away with the iron rod with which one could rule at home. It had not been her who had decided to make enemies of everyone who could have really provided support to China beyond military bases and strategic distractions. It had not been her who had given the man she loved an impossible task, and let him die when he failed at it.

She nodded decisively. If the Politburo changed their mind, they would live.

For now.

But they would not change their minds, if Wu survived and fought his way across the last few hundred kilometers with an intact, victorious force.

And so they would die.

Her smile was sharper and colder than a razor's edge, as she contemplated how she would arrange the thing.

* * *

As the mountains rolled by to his right, the steppe rolled by to his left, and his lead tank rolled on ahead of him on the road to Tashkent, Luo was getting worried, and it wasn't about what he should have been worried about.

The much-vaunted Russians had been shattered, and the Indians had proved to be little better, although they had been attacking an unshaken force of mechanized infantry backed by Overlords. The GLA had shot their bolt, and the Americans seemed disinclined to pursue them. According to the rumor mill, the Balkans were a war zone once again, and some said they were going to intervene in the slow-motion disintegration of the Persian Gulf region.

He didn't care, as long as they weren't attacking him. He had never experienced the sort of precision firepower that they could bring to bear, and he never wanted to—especially when he couldn't strike back at it.

So, as a result, he wasn't worried about that.

His unit was on the advance guard now, and would be until Tashkent, and he was a little concerned about that. If anyone ran into a Russian or Indian ambush, it would be him. And while his company was one of the best equipped to deal with one of those, especially if it came from an armored unit, it would still be painful, or potentially so.

However, that wasn't what was worrying him.

There were also logistical issues. The spare parts had lasted longer than he'd expected, honestly-if he'd been asked when he thought they'd run out, he would have said Samarkand. However, Wu had instituted two policies: first, any tank that was a combat loss was to be stripped for all usable parts, and second, that any vehicle that required a mechanics shop to be put back in combat condition qualified as a combat loss.

As a result, they'd been able to eke out replacement parts for longer than they'd anticipated. Unfortunately, those stocks were about to run out, they were still fifty kilometers from Tashkent, and it was still further from there to China. Breakdowns were about to become much more frequent, and he suspected that, especially with the Overlords, the fighting over the next week or so was going to see the General shift to a "use them or lose them" attitude about the heavy tanks.

Which was an attitude he understood even if he was of two minds about it, since while it increased the chances of his getting killed, he would also rather go out leading a charge of Overlords to break the enemy than sit around watching while others fought.

However, even that wasn't what was worrying him.

No, what was worrying him was the fact that the officers were starting to draw lines. Rumors were swirling like the eddies of the Yangtze about what the Politburo had planned for the General once they got home, and about whether they were right to do so.

There weren't many who thought that the General was actually planning a coup—and most of those, he suspected, would support him in it. But there were a few who thought better of the men who'd hung them out to dry than the man who was bringing them home.

There were also a few who believed that backing the Politburo would be good for their career prospects. He wasn't sure why they thought that, but he suspected it had something to do with the fact that they were usually incompetent and had prominent relatives on the civilian side.

Most of the officers just wanted to stay out of it, a position he agreed with. He didn't want to see the General rewarded for his efforts with a bullet to the head, but he didn't want to see China descend into civil war, either. That was more important than any of them.

But then there were the officers who'd made it very clear that they intended to do something about it if the Politburo decided to treat the General as a traitor. And they outnumbered the Politburo loyalists by a considerable margin.

What was he going to do, if it came down to it? Would he be able to fire on the men he'd marched thousands of kilometers with and fought beside for most of that? Would he be able to turn on the government he'd sworn his loyalty to?

He didn't know. And most of the others didn't either.

As he thought about it, maybe dying on the road to Xinjiang wouldn't be so bad after all. Better to fall in battle against China's enemies than against China itself. Or, worse, to have to live with betraying either the General or his country.

Much better to die facing non-Chinese.

* * *

Bai looked out over the Khujand valley from the Bunker he and his squad were occupying and grimaced. The terrain didn't give him much hope.

He knew why they were in Khujand. The General needed a diversion and rearguard, and they were available.

And they would hold for as long as it took.

But he was under no illusions about what that would mean for him and his men. The Indians were coming, and while they weren't as sophisticated as the Americans or as sneaky as the ELA, they weren't as clumsy as the Russians, and they weren't as weak as Juhziz.

It was going to be a hard fight, and he didn't expect to come out alive from it. But the army might, and that was what mattered.

He hoped it would, anyway. Dying for something was bad enough. Dying for nothing would be humiliating.

The problem was that, by now, the two brigades were both operating with three short battalions instead of three reinforced battalions. And they were short on Overlords, as they had but six. Also, the terrain did not lend itself well to the defense. The only real obstacle, aside from the city, was the river, and even a sergeant could see that the Indians would be coming up the roads on both sides of the river. At least General Ma hadn't stuck anyone south of the river, besides a few recon units that were supposed to provide forward observation for the artillery. What there was of it, anyway.

No matter. He and his men had never run from a fight, but only retreated when ordered, and he wasn't going to start running now.

* * *

Chamnadgar snarled as he looked at the utter mess in front of him. "What happened here?"

"Rockslide, sir. Took out fifty meters of road. As it was, we got lucky. Fifteen seconds one way and it would have taken out the recon platoon. Thirty seconds the other way and it would have hit the rest of the company," his chief of staff, Arjun Patil, replied,

He bit back a curse. He'd been ordered to hold his ground in Dushband for two days after the Russians had been kicked out of Samarkand, and even if he'd been allowed to move the moment the Chinese launched the attack it would have been an even bet for whether he would get to Tashkent before the Chinese did.

With the two-day delay, even if everything had gone perfectly, the Chinese would probably have been setting up their attack on the city when he got there, and would definitely have troops deployed on the road from Dushband to Tashkent.

However, if things like this kept happening, the Chinese were going to be well on their way through Tashkent by the time his men arrived. And, of course, there was the matter of the troops down in Khujand, who'd kept the staffers in New Delhi convinced that Wu was going to try and make his way across southern Kyrgyzstan until a recon flight had made it past the defenses the Chinese had set up to confirm that the Chinese main body had turned towards Tashkent instead of Andijan.

Which was why his division was stuck a hundred kilometers south of Osh, trying to make its way through the mountains on one bad road.

"How long will the engineers take to clear it?" He asked, dreading the answer.

"Captain Gwalior says it will take at least twelve hours, perhaps as many as eighteen."

Chamnadgar bit back a curse.

He'd argued against this route when they proposed it to him. It would have been so much easier to simply push up towards Khujand and have his men screen the city while other Indian forces went up the road from Dushband to Andijan to Almaty. But no, they'd been worried that the two brigades' worth of troops they'd observed in Khujand would attack or something.

So, instead, they sent him east, then north, along considerably worse roads.

He wondered if New Delhi had even checked to see if there was a difference between the routes.

He doubted it.

Also, intel reported that the Chinese had troops approaching Tashkent, and they were more than halfway through Samarkand by now-and the lead elements of the divisions behind him were just coming into artillery range of Khujand.

That thought was just too much, and he cursed under his breath.

"Sir?" Patil asked.

"Nothing, Colonel," Chamnadgar replied. "Just frustration."

He sighed. "Tell the men we're halting for the next twelve hours. If nothing else, this delay will let us do some vehicle maintenance and refueling." He paused. "What are the numbers for that, by the way?"

"We've lost a few vehicles to breakdowns, but not many."

Chamnadgar grunted. He'd always been emphasized maintenance in any unit that he commanded, and some of his fellow commanders had quarreled with him about it. He knew why, of course-the notion that warriors need not concern themselves with menial tasks still remained in the mind of his countrymen, and doubtless would for a long time.

However, during live war games, he'd always brought a higher percentage of his vehicles to the battlefield than his opponents, and this was proving no different. His division would make It to the battlefield with most of its fighting strength. From the reports he was getting from some of his old friends in the other divisions, the units attacking Khujand would be significantly weakened.

Of course, in a way, this was a bad thing. It meant even more of his men would die when they took on the equivalent of five Chinese divisions alone.

Although who knew? Maybe Khujand would fall quickly, and the reinforcements would be forthcoming.

He doubted it, though. New Delhi had been mismanaging things ever since the war had moved beyond Pakistan. That, they'd had plans for, and had for decades, which meant they'd been refined and gone over again and again, with all the variables accounted for.

Now that they were having to make new plans, they were acting like green junior lieutenants.

And he and his men would pay for it.

* * *

Leang was not fretting. No, that was far too mild a word for what she was doing.

There was no information coming to her out of Wu's army. None, beyond the standard reports on daily progress and the like.

All of the information she was getting was coming to her from people who knew people in Wu's army who didn't serve as informants for either the Politburo or for her, and there was precious little of that.

There was enough, however, to tell her what she needed to know. There was a clique developing in Wu's army that intended to see to it that her plans for Wu would fail—and he might not even know anything about it.

This was both good and bad. It was good because it indicated that he didn't know what she had planned, which meant that he would go quietly. Also, it meant that there was a good chance that he wouldn't be near any of the units whose commanders were prepared to commit them against her and the Politburo when she arrived to welcome him back to China.

However, it was bad because the clique probably knew that Wu didn't know about them, which meant that it was something of a spontaneous event. That meant they would be very difficult to buy off, if it was even possible, and might end up launching a coup out of vengeance, if they failed to protect Wu. Also, he'd give her no clues for what he was planning, because he wasn't planning anything.

She'd heard a saying that the world's best swordsman wasn't scared of the world's second-hand swordsman, but the world's worst, because he had no idea what the idiot would do. She'd always thought the notion somewhat silly, but as she intrigued against a man who seemed completely oblivious to the entire notion of scheming against internal rivals instead of planning how to defeat external enemies, she was beginning to understand.

If he had begun to plot in response to her plot, she could have used that as evidence that he was planning to go against the Politburo—and, try as he might to conceal it, there would have been some evidence of such a plot if there were one. Since he wasn't, though, she was going to have to try and claim that he had somehow managed to get a good portion of the officer corps of his army to join with him against the Politburo without leaving any sort of evidence behind.

That wouldn't be impossible to sell to the old men—near-delusional paranoia was almost a requirement to succeed in the Chinese government, although tilting over the edge tended to be counterproductive. She well remembered one poor fellow who'd ended up refusing to tell anyone anything ever, for fear they would use it against him, and who'd ended up running analysis of the attitudes of the Siberian tribes towards potential Chinese expansion.

However, if there wasn't some kind of evidence of a plot beyond the obviously trumped-up charges of corruption, the PLA might become unhappy. And if they became sufficiently unhappy, the Politburo would throw her to them without a second thought.

She'd rather avoid that.

Also, where was Black Lotus? Why wasn't she sending her anything?

Then she remembered some things that she'd heard, a few years back. No one had ever known one way or another, of course, but the rumors had always been that she and Shin Fai had been...close. Those rumors had run afoul of the fact that both of them had been observed openly consorting with others, but they'd never really died.

Could it be? Could this all be some kind of revenge?

No. It wouldn't be. Shin Fai had been killed by an American sniper's bullet, everyone knew that. There was no reason for her to view her own government as the reason for his death.

Leang nodded to herself firmly as she leaned forward in her chair and wrote out the orders for Major Chung. His men would need to be ready for anything, when the moment of truth came, and it would have to be done with complete surprise, if they wanted this to succeed.

Of course, there was always the chance that Wu would fail. Given what she knew about the current situation, that was...unlikely.

Highly unlikely.


	15. Chapter 15

Reynolds looked out at the wreckage of Timisoara and sighed bitterly.

He and his men had managed to keep matters from escalating into a massacre, barely, primarily by killing the Romanians who'd decided to attack the Hungarian section of town.

Fortunately, said rioters had been using firearms and technicals, and they'd gotten video of them using such, so no one was going to question their use of lethal force, aside from the Romanians, who would have questioned his decision to do anything except sit on his hands or join in.

That having been said, that decision could have resulted in accusations that the US was sympathetic to the Hungarians. However, the Hungarian militia that crossed the border had immediately engaged in activities that could be summarized as "attempted ethnic cleansing," which had given him the latitude to mousetrap and destroy them as he'd taken out the Romanian militants.

Unfortunately, the delay caused by the need to quell the riot had meant that he'd had to do it in Timisoara itself, which meant that while he'd killed nearly all of the Hungarians, they'd killed more than a few Romanians.

Similar reports were coming out from all along the Hungarian and Romanian border, with the roles reversed depending on which side was better organized. Things had been worse in what had been Yugoslavia, even though the Slovenes, supposedly, had kept out of it. That hadn't kept the Croats and Serbs and Bosnians had decided to...resolve...the issues that hadn't been resolved back in the 1990s.

The forces deployed to that region had also managed to keep the fighting from becoming a full-scale war, but there were rumors that some of the French and British units had been reluctant to fire on the Serbs, and the Germans had been enthused about doing so. The opposite had been true when the peacekeepers had had to deal with the Croats, and the Bosnians had been caught in the middle.

The only real bright spot there was that while Kosovo had come within an ace of exploding, the fact that an entire American brigade had been garrisoned there had kept the Serbs and Albanians from going at each others' throats, but it had only done that, and everyone there was on a hair trigger.

However, he couldn't really do anything about that. In the real of things he could actually deal with, he'd lost three men last night, and ten more had been medevaced out to Germany. While all of them were expected to live, it wouldn't take more than a few nights like the last one to cause people to demand that the soldiers come home.

Some instinct told him to step to the side, and he did so just in time to hear the bullet sing by his head and slam into the wall, dusting him with plaster.

"Sniper!" he yelled as he went flat, and rolled to cover as his men also scattered to get behind whatever cover or concealment they could.

He looked up and behind him briefly to check the hole in the wall to try and see where the bullet might have come from, then moved over a little and stuck his head up to see if he could see anything.

He couldn't, and he dropped down just as another bullet sang through the air. He heard his men yelling and fanning out to look for the sniper, and he wondered for a moment whether it was a Hungarian or a Romanian. Based on what he'd been told, his name was mud in Bucharest and Budapest, and on both sides of the border.

He looked over at his S-3, who had his pistol out and ready, and fought back the urge to ask if he thought whoever was shooting at them was that bad a shot.

Then he heard a submachinegun snarl from the street, and realized that having his gun out might be a good idea.

Just as he brought it to the ready and turned to cover the door to the balcony, it slammed open and a man in civilian clothes came through, AK in his hands and murder on his mind.

Time slowed to a crawl as he raised the pistol to firing position, saw the man's chest over his sights, and started slamming the trigger back as fast as he could.

Everything still seemed slow as molasses in January as the first bullet hit dead center of the chest and his target stopped, the second hit up and to the right and he staggered back while keeping his grip on the gun, and then his third hit the man in the right shoulder and he spun to the side, firing as he did so.

He could feel the cuts open in his cheek as fragments went everywhere, but as the Romanian? Hungarian? tried to get himself back on target he did the same.

He was a second faster, and his fourth shot hit dead center.

Then, finally, the man dropped his gun and collapsed to the floor, and as time sped back up to its normal pace he turned to see if his S-3 was all right.

His gun was pointed fixedly up and to the right, and Reynolds followed the line to where a man in a stocking cap hung out the window, obviously dead.

"Clear!" He heard someone say from the hall, and he turned back to see Fritz helmets and digicam come into view.

"Sergeant, we found the colonel!" The soldier in front yelled back over his shoulder, then extended a hand.

Reynold took the offered assistance gratefully, then looked around as a thought struck him.

"We found the sniper, sir. He tried to run with the rifle." The young man smiled thinly as he helped the S-3 to his feet. "He didn't make it far. We think he was Romanian, but we're not sure."

"And that submachinegun?"

"Friend of his, according to one of the locals. He tried to cover for his buddy, got Sergeant McCandless good in the chest. Body armor stopped it though."

That was good.

"Tell him to get that looked anyway," Reynolds said. "Any casualties?"

"None so far, sir." The soldier looked down at the man lying in his own blood on the balcony. "Do you think he was working with the sniper too, sir?"

"An excellent question. Roll him over, son."

He did, and Reynolds knelt down to look at him. There wasn't much difference between Hungarians and Romanians, but there was some—however, death made identifying where people came from more difficult.

"Check his pockets," he ordered as he stood and stepped through the door. "Is the captain here?"

"Yes sir," the soldier called after him as the S-3 got up and followed him. "He's in the lobby."

That boded well, although he kept an ear out for more gunfire as he walked down the hall and the stairs to where hopefully someone who knew what was going on awaited.

When he reached the lobby, he saw Doubleday standing there, with Lieutenants Stannard and Stone. "Where's Biddle?" he asked.

"He just left," Doubleday replied. "Stannard here was just about to go. Stone's platoon is the one providing security right now."

"Good," Reynolds replied. "What's the situation?"

"Stable. This seems to be an isolated attack. There's nothing else happening in the town. Still, the men are deployed in squad strength, and Biddle's platoon is on their way to make sure no one decides to try and use this as a call to clean out the Hungarians."

"Excellent. How is Sergeant McCandless doing? I heard he was shot."

"He's fine. A little rattled, but that's all. Got the man who shot him."

"Sir," the soldier who he'd spoken to upstairs said from behind him. "We found these on the bodies of the men who attacked you," he said, holding out two identification cards. Reynolds took them and whistled softly. Both were Hungarian.

"Sloppy," he said, turning them over to Captain Newton. "Get these over to Intel right away. Captain Doubleday, send a squad with him. I need to know if these are forgeries before I make my report to brigade."

"It would be unlikely for both parties to try and attack you at the same time," Doubleday mused. "Stone, send one of your squads with the captain."

As Stone and Newton left, Reynolds shrugged.

"If those two men were actually Hungarian, I doubt they planned to attack me right then. They probably saw an opportunity while we were distracted and took it. Probably thought they could blame it on the Romanians."

Doubleday leaned forward and spoke quietly, where no one else could hear.

"So what do we do now?"

"Keep the peace. Not much else we can do."

That wasn't really Doubleday's question, and Reynolds knew it. His real question was, "How long are we going to try and keep these people from killing each other?"

* * *

Arslan was of divided mind.

On the one hand, the violence that had engulfed the Balkans had not been part of his plans. He'd hoped that the Americans would be kept busy arbitrating the various disputes that he had been sure would erupt after the Chinese were forced out and he granted the Kurds independence, but he'd hoped they wouldn't be stupid enough to start a war under the guns of the League. He preferred to leave men alive, rather than dead.

On the other hand, the fighting had it had thoroughly distracted the humanitarians from what he was doing in Turkey.

It wasn't like he was doing anything that should have caused them to be upset, at least not now. The bloodshed was done, and he didn't think he'd need to spill more. Furthermore, the people he was going against hated the humanitarians as much as they hated him, and the only reason they didn't hate the humanitarians even more than they hated him was because he was near and the humanitarians were far.

But for whatever reason, doing what he was doing disturbed them. He wasn't sure if it was because they thought he was mixing the state with religion, or because he was mixing religion with the state. He suspected that it varied, depending on the person.

He didn't much care. Islam was an inextricable part of Turkish life. Islamic clerics, at least presently, very likely to intervene directly in politics. They were almost expected to, and if they did not, the people would find clerics who did.

Therefore, he needed to make sure that the clerics who had the positions of power and influence were not just neutral, but actively friendly towards what he wanted to accomplish.

Which was why he was looking forward to this interview.

There was a knock on the door.

"Open!" He said cheerfully.

"There's an Imam Osman Koprulu here to see you, General."

"Send him in, then."

The man who stepped through the door was on the brink of middle age, with a luxuriant but well-trimmed beard that covered a face that seemed scholarly but well-humored.

In other words, the sort of face that belonged to a man who would listen to reason.

On the other hand, not the sort of man who was easily intimidated.

However, in order to accomplish his purposes that combination was exactly what he needed.

"General Arslan," the cleric said. "It is an honor."

"The honor is mine," Arslan replied, the standard formula actually carrying with it truth, this time, as it so rarely did. Koprulu had been one of the few men who had aroused the ire of both the Turkish government and the GLA's pet clerics, by both demanding a place for Islam in the public life of the nation and inveighing against the ideology of external jihad.

That Islam would eventually dominate the world, he claimed, was a given. Better to absorb the rest of the world, by immigration and proselytization, than to burn it.

Arslan was no scholar of the Koran, so he did not know whether Koprulu or his opponents were right about the Prophet Mohammed and the will of Allah. What he did know was that Koprulu's ideas appealed to most Turks, and that his ideas were compatible with what he wanted for Turkey, which was what really mattered to him.

After they exchanged polite pleasantries about their families—which did not take long, in Arslan's case, since he had neither wife nor children, though he intended to do something about that—and a little time in Koprulu's case, since his wife had borne him five, the eldest of whom was trying to decide what university to attend and the youngest of whom was still in primary school.

But, eventually, it was time to discuss what had brought them here.

To his surprise, it was the imam who brought it up. "You want my cooperation in remaking Turkey."

Arslan did not even blink in surprise, and he was rather proud of that.

"Yes."

"You also think I will give it. But, I suspect, have plans in place if I do not. Different imams. Hanim, I imagine, would be your next choice."

This time, Arslan did blink. This was…surprising. Not only that Koprulu had understood so well, but that he would be willing to say so. Then again, a man who had survived angering both the GLA and the Turkish government was likely to be a perceptive one, and a bold one. He decided that such an answer deserved truth.

"Yes. But I would prefer you. Your views are closer to my own, and you are more noted than he is."

"Those would be assets to you. Doubtless you know that I have made some allusions to you in my more recent preaching. You would doubtless prefer that such allusions be more explicit and more laudatory."

"Yes." He decided to just come out and ask the important question rather than get to it through circumlocution. "And what would I need to do for you in return?"

Koprulu smiled. "Provide support for the Faith. Nothing drastic, just some money. As to blasphemy, I have always thought that Allah could protect His own name. And He usually does. And also—to allow the Faith a place in the public square."

"What sort of place? That is the trouble, as you well know."

Koprulu nodded. "Yes. But we both know Kemal's path, to keep the Faith out of politics, cannot last. Not so long as nearly all of us are Muslims, though I fear not especially devout ones."

Arslan himself did not fear a lack of devotion at all—in truth, he welcomed it—but he nodded in agreement with the rest of the imam's statement as he continued on.

"But, regretfully, the Prophet did not speak on all things. Therefore, the Koran and the hadith cannot be the sole source of the law. Therefore, here is my proposal. So long as you advance no law that outright contradicts the word of the Prophet, then I will lend you my wholehearted support, and will use what influence I have to convince my fellow clerics to do so as well."

Arslan mentally snorted. Koprulu was probably the most influential imam in a generation, so that was good as saying they would follow him unquestioningly. The conditions, however, were rather vague. "How will I know if a law contradicts the Koran?"

"Allah gave you a mind. Use it. If you are uncertain, come to me. If you suppose wrong, I will come to you in private first."

That was refreshing, compared to many of the other imams he had dealt with over the years. Admittedly, the sort of person who would be willing to provide religious guidance to members of an organization like the GLA were likely to be less than relaxed about orthodoxy, but he'd always thought that any man who claimed to plumb the depths of Allah's mind was probably overstating his wisdom. Also, that Koprulu was willing to talk things over in private first, before going out in public and making it a matter of honor, boded well.

Assuming he could be trusted, and by all accounts he could be.

He nodded.

"Agreed."

The imam looked a little surprised, and Arslan let a slight smile out. It was best to maintain a reputation for decisiveness. He recovered quickly, though.

"There is one thing I would like to ask, General, but I do not know if you can tell me."

"Ask. If I can't tell you, I'll tell you that." Let Koprulu know that he was not the only one who could give vague but meaningful answers.

"Where is Jarmen Kell? I would like to speak with him, but it is my understanding that no one has seen him in over a week. Was he killed during the attack on Juhziz?"

Arslan shook his head. "No, and that's all I can tell you."

Koprulu looked him in the eye, and Arslan got the unsettling feeling that the imam understood exactly what he wasn't saying before the cleric nodded.

"Well, if you ever do get in touch with him, tell him that Osman Koprulu would like to sit down and talk with him. I suspect he could use some guidance."

"I certainly will. Perhaps he'll take you up on it."

* * *

Thomas sighed as he looked at the map.

The situation in southeastern Europe wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, but it was bad enough, and what made it worse was that things were going so well, elsewhere.

In the current war, China stood alone, now, aside from South Africa, and it wouldn't be long before the latter gave up the fight, seeing as their navy and air force were both gone.

In the continuation of the last war, the GLA was done, now that Kassad and Juhziz were both dead.

Finally, in the prevention of another war, Europe was actually reorganizing along somewhat functional lines.

And these idiots in the Balkans were messing it all up.

Well, they were trying to, anyway.

The attacks had been widespread, but the fighting hadn't really had a chance to go all over the place, thanks to the fact that the peacekeeping forces had been given an ROE that boiled down to "if they're shooting at civilians, shoot them."

That had worked surprisingly well.

Even so, several hundred people had died, thirty-seven of them Americans, and a lot of people were screaming bloody murder.

Reports from Washington were that an Indiana congressman was speaking on behalf of the Serbs, one from Pennsylvania for the Croats, and another from Missouri for the Bosnians, with one from Michigan for the Albanians. Fortunately, the only ones that really mattered for him were the Michigander and the Indianan, since no American troops had been involved in the three-cornered mess in what had been western Yugoslavia and since the United States had already expended blood and treasure to defend Kosovo once they weren't pushing very hard, albeit for very different reasons.

However, the Congresswoman from Ohio whose constituents were upset about what Thomas's men had done to the Hungarians, and the congressman from Florida whose constituents were upset about what Thomas's men had done to the Romanians, were a different story. To make matters worse, both were on the foreign affairs committee.

There were rumors of hearings, but he hoped that the fact that both sides of the story would be heard if that happened would keep either of them from causing any issues. His men had long reports of what had happened during the fighting, and it was very clear that neither side's hands were clean.

Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, there were the humanitarians, represented by a particularly annoying Californian, who were upset that his men hadn't prevented anything from happening at all. He wasn't sure how his men were supposed to have done that, but some people had very unrealistic assessments of what soldiers could do. Even so, they were only influential when they allied with someone else, and right now no one wanted their help.

The least important protest group were the usual antiwar types who could be counted on to claim that this whole mess was part of some kind of nefarious plot to extend American hegemony to exploit the locals, somehow. He really wasn't sure what there was in the Balkans to exploit, and neither was anyone else, which meant the radicals weren't gaining much of a hearing.

The people who were getting a hearing, however, were the isolationists, who, now that the Chinese were in full retreat and looked to be having a civil war of their own, were clamoring for the United States to withdraw and retrench.

As one congressman from Kansas had put it, "there is no outcome in the Balkans worth the life of even one American soldier. None of these people are worth defending, and deserve whatever happens to them."

While Thomas understood the sentiment-neither Bucharest nor Budapest had said a word about the fact that his men had stopped the massacre of Romanians and Hungarians, but had sent multiple complaints about his "high-handed and outrageous" actions in killing and dispersing their nationals who had been doing the massacring-the fact was that leaving the world to its own devices was the reason the US had had to fight this war and World War II.

However, there was one thing the isolationists were right about-the US and the wealthy European countries couldn't act as stabilizers in the region forever.

However, if they didn't want another war over some fool thing in the Balkans, they also needed to make sure that there was some kind of stability before they left.

The President was meeting with the various factions in Berlin right now. He hoped it would work. Right now, however, he needed to talk with the British, French and Germans about how things were being run in the former Yugoslavia. At least the Slovenes and Montenegrins had stayed out of it again.

* * *

Harrison sighed as he leaned back in his chair.

The three-sided war in former Yugoslavia was going to be utterly intractable. The Bosnians were the only ones who were willing to see reason, probably because they feared being trapped by neighbors who, at best, didn't like them much.

The Serbs wanted the old Republika Srpska to be added to Serbia, as well as Kosovo. Albania wanted Kosovo, as well as western Macedonia. Croatia wanted some bits of Bosnia. However, the Serbs outnumbered any two of the groups put together, and were barely matched by all three. Any settlement had to take that into account.

To make matters worse, there was no one leader for any of the factions. All of them had at least three, and the Serbs had five, according to the CIA. All of them had competing demands, ranging from the fairly reasonable to the utterly delusional-although, once again, the Bosnians were the least unrealistic, probably because they knew they would be lucky to survive.

The Hungarian-Romanian contretemps wasn't quite as bad, but it still had some problems. The Hungarians wanted to revise the borders set out in the Treaty of Trianon to how they were in 1914. Unfortunately, the majority in those areas was...Romanian, even when one allowed for the fact that Bucharest had been fiddling with the numbers in the borderlands.

In fact, the only areas where Hungarians were an uncontested majority were a few small areas on Romania's northwest border and, just to make things more difficult, a large area in the middle of the country.

Harrison hated to do it, but it was fairly obvious that the Serbs were going to get a lot of what they wanted, and everyone else was going to get less than what they probably actually deserved.

That was...peeving.

On the other hand, the resultant peace might actually hold this time.

Maybe.

Of course, that left the Trianon question, and while it was going to be less trouble than the other one, it was still going to be a pain in the tail.

And there was still so much else left to do.

* * *

Kell looked through the sights at his target. This shot would be rather important to a lot of people, so it was important that he not miss.

He took a deep breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger carefully.

The rifle slammed back into his shoulder, and his target dropped like a stone.

"Good shot, Jarmen," said the man standing beside him. "The children will have something to eat this week."

Kell shrugged as he looked over at the town's headman before looking back to where he'd killed the urial. "It wasn't a bad one," he said quietly. "Come, let us retrieve it before a wolf does."

As they walked to where the sheep lay on the ground, the man cleared his throat.

"There's a question I need to ask you," he said, somewhat embarrassedly.

Kell said nothing, and kept walking.

"Why did you come here?"

"Because my brother and his family are here."

"They've been here for fifteen years. Why come back now?"

Kell stopped for a moment. Why had he decided to come back?

He knew why he'd retired, of course—his mind had begun to send the signals that it was no longer prepared to be constantly on and ready for action.

But why had he chosen to come here?

He could have stayed in Istanbul, but that would have meant that the General could find him easily. While he did not fear that Arslan would have him killed—there were contingencies in place, in case someone should kill him—it would have meant being available in case someone needed to be removed.

That, however, didn't mean he couldn't have retired somewhere that wasn't Central Asia—the GLA had paid him well, and he hadn't spent much of the money. Azerbaijan or Anatolia wouldn't have been a problem, and there were a few clans in Yemen that owed him.

Was it true what he'd just said? That it was only because of family?

No.

It was because, in the end, Jarmen Kell was a son of the steppe. He had learned to shoot here, to fight here…to love here.

This was where he belonged, and it was where his bones belonged, and it was where he would teach a new generation how to defend itself against those that would dispossess it.

He shrugged. "It was time for me to retire. I'd made up for all the mistakes I could with a rifle. Now I need to try to make up for the ones I can't resolve with a rifle. Although," he said wryly, "I suppose I am using a rifle right now, so I might have been mistaken."

The headman laughed. "Well, be that as it may, it's good to have you here."

"It's good to be here."


	16. Chapter 16

Chamnadgar stood on the last hill before the Chinese positions and sighed. His division had arrived just in time to find out that the Chinese had gotten to Tashkent first and blocked the road into the city, and now he had to decide how he was going to respond.

In some ways, he was pleased that he'd managed to get here before Wu started his assault, despite the bad roads and the bad weather. Unfortunately, now he had to decide how he was going to attack, even though he didn't want to, because that was what his orders were.

This, of course, despite the fact that the Chinese already had a bunker line up, complete with minefields and Gatlings. And Overlords.

And had a division holding the line. Admittedly, it was a weakened division, but he didn't even have twice as many men and vehicles as they did. At best, it was three to two.

This was going to be...tricky.

He looked through the binoculars again, and nodded. It was apparent that they had no intention of attacking his men. In fact, they almost seemed to be trying to make it obvious that they had no intention of attacking his men.

He wasn't entirely sure why, honestly—maybe Wu thought that he would be willing to just sit and wait as long as he thought he wasn't going to come under attack.

Wu had read him right, he allowed, but he hadn't read his superiors right.

He looked at the terrain, carefully. If he was going to be made to do something that was operationally stupid, he was going to be smart about it.

He mentally went over the information that intel had given him and frowned. He needed to look at it again, but from what he remembered the flanks weren't refused, and he wondered why Wu would have made such a basic mistake.

Then again, even he couldn't oversee everything at once, and the division commander might have been lazy.

Either way, he needed to investigate the Chinese deployment before he went to the attack. At least he'd managed to keep some of the special forces that had been assigned to his division during the invasion of Pakistan. They could at least check to see whether the Chinese were setting up a trap or not.

He turned to his chief of staff. "Get Captain Nangan, and tell him to send his men to see if the Chinese are unprotected on their flanks. Then, begin to draw up plans for how we'll attack the position, both if they are and if they aren't."

He paused. "Be a bit daring, if you would. We're going to need it."

The next few hours were nerve-wracking as he waited for Nangan and his men to come back with a report on the Chinese defensive positions and he set up his lead brigade to demonstrate and keep the defenders fixed in place while he moved the other two in position to try and flank the Chinese position, just in case he was right.

It was well past midnight when Nangan and his men reported in, cold and tired, but alive and undetected. It was true. The Chinese had left their flanks wide open.

Chamnadgar smiled coldly as he looked over at his chief of staff. "What plans do you have, for this contingency?"

"You said to be daring, sir, so we were. One brigade demonstrates in the center, the other two move under cover of night and then roll up the flanks."

He nodded. Excellent.

"Good work. Exactly what I wanted. Can we pull it off?"

"We think so, sir. It could be a little tricky keeping them from hearing us, but an artillery bombardment should do for that. We're also pretty sure we can get some air support from Dushband, but that's going to probably be a one-time event."

"Good. That's what we're going to do." He looked at Nangan. "Good work. Can your men guide the assault troops into attack positions tomorrow night?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent. Good man." He turned to the commanders of the two brigades who were going into the attack. "Will your men be ready?" He asked, in a tone that indicated that they had better be.

"Not a problem, sir," the commander of his right flank brigade replied, and the other one nodded.

"Good. We attack then. We'll provide some level of support to the Russians, hopefully. Also, have we received any communication attempts from them?"

"No sir. They might not even know we're here."

That wouldn't surprise him. High command probably wasn't telling the Russians much of anything, since it was fairly obvious that Russian communications in Samarkand had been completely compromised, and there was nothing to indicate that the Russians in Tashkent had better security.

"Well then," he said, "here's what we're going to do."

* * *

Wu frowned as he looked at the map. Something was nagging him, but he wasn't sure what it was. There was some threat out there that he didn't understand, and that bothered him.

He was fairly sure that it wasn't something from the Russians or the Indians. That Indian division under Chamnadgar was going to cause some problems if they decided to attack, but even if they did it wouldn't change the final outcome at Tashkent, and once his men got past there it was a clear road back to China.

Those Indian troops coming from the south might destroy the diversionary force in Khujand and damage the rearguard, but they couldn't keep the main body from making it back.

No, it was something else. Something he wouldn't be able to do anything about.

And it was something having to do with what would happen after they returned triumphantly to China, because he kept getting this nagging feeling that he needed to keep some of his divisions in shape to fight a major field battle—and this was more than the usual "plan for the unexpected," this was something that he thought would really happen.

But what could it possibly be?

The Politburo? They had nothing to fear from him, so they were no threat.

The Russians or Indians? By the time this campaign was over, neither would be in a position to attack his country.

The Vietnamese, Koreans, or Japanese? Hah. They feared the dragon, still, else they would not bind themselves so close to China's rivals.

Mongolia? He snorted. They might have been powerful back when all you needed to conquer was a bow and a horse, but in this new world the country would fall in a matter of hours if either of its neighbors so chose.

But no matter. Right now, he had to look over the final plans for the attack on Tashkent. And, just in case the Indians decided to do something foolish, he made a note to move one of the relatively intact brigades to where they could assist the blocking division if necessary. One should plan for even unlikely contingencies.

* * *

Chernov was actually a happy man, which was not something he had expected to be when he received word that he was supposed to pursue the Chinese force. That had struck him as a rather quick way to commit suicide.

However, once he found out that he would be accompanying three Indian divisions, his evaluation had changed. Mother Russia needed some kind of victory against the Chinese after Samarkand and what was about to happen in Tashkent, and if they could only get it by helping New Delhi, so be it.

However, there was the problem that it was obvious that the Indians regarded their Russian allies as being almost more of a liability than a help. This grated, especially because Samarkand provided far too much evidence that that might be the case.

If nothing else, he _still_ didn't trust that his communications network wasn't still compromised by Black Lotus. At least he'd managed to get his communications functional again, but they were going to have to be in strict code to keep the Chinese from finding out what they intended. Fortunately, he'd set up those codes with his officers a long time ago, because trying to compromise the other side's communications was expected during training exercises—one of the many reasons to train like one expected to fight.

The Indians' disdain also grated because, frankly, he was less than impressed by how the Indians had performed against the Chinese at Samarkand. They'd failed to notice the fairly obvious attack to their north, had failed to notice that Russian forces were in full retreat, and had then not counterattacked when it might have actually done some good, but had waited until it accomplished nothing but getting their soldiers killed.

He'd heard that the commander of that division had received his rank because he had friends in the Indian Parliament, and that such things were rare. He hoped so, and so far, based on the conference he had attended, he had evidence that it was. The three Indian division commanders and their corps commander were all competent and capable, a conclusion he'd come to after attending the one and only face-to-face meeting.

Right now, however, he was simply happy that he and his men were going to help destroy the Chinese force in Khujand. It wasn't what his superiors really wanted—they wanted to him to be in on the Indian attempt to destroy Wu's army—but he frankly didn't think his force was up for the job. He essentially had a reinforced motor rifle regiment, albeit one with more artillery than usual, and that would not be enough to take on dug-in Overlords—not after the men who'd faced the things when they were attacking told him what had happened.

He shuddered. It must have been like what the Hitlerites had felt during the Great Patriotic War, when the KV tanks ground forward and their pathetic little guns didn't even scratch the armor. And the Chinese were better-officered and better-trained than those tank crews had been. He didn't doubt that his regiment would have done a better job than the ones who had faced the main Chinese attack in Samarkand, but he knew that the end result would have been no different.

It was more than a little deflating, but at least Khujand should give Russia a chance to be victorious, though he doubted he'd get anything out of it—the only thing worse than failure was succeeding when everyone else, including the friends of the General Staff, failed. His men might get something out of it, though. He'd have to hope for that.

Luo looked out at the ground in front of the defenses and sighed before he looked up at the night sky.

He knew what was headed his way, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He wasn't especially worried about it, but fighting the Indians was different than fighting the GLA.

The GLA were terrorists; the Indians were professionals, like himself. There just wasn't that personal element to it, like he was used to. They were also real professionals, unlike the Russians whose lack of preparation had been a large part of the reason that Samarkand had fallen so quickly.

And for some reason, it looked like they were attacking this position. He wasn't sure why—the division was at only two-thirds strength, but the Indians only had one here, according to Intel, and if Overlords were powerful on the offense, on the defense they were nigh-unkillable.

They might break through, but they would take enough casualties that exploiting whatever gains they made would be impossible, and he wondered if their commander was acting under orders. He sympathized, if that were true, but that didn't change his duty.

As that thought finished, he heard the thunder of artillery.

Where was it landing?

He strained his ears. There—on both flanks. How could the Indians possibly have—then he remembered whose division had been stationed in Dushband.

Chamnadgar. The man whose division had blown its way through two of Pakistan's best in order to relieve the commandos who had secured Pakistan's nukes, thereby making the world that much safer. Of course he would have come up with a plan like this, if he was ordered to attack. It was just the kind of daring they should have expected.

They would defeat him, of course—he had only the one division. But it would be a much higher price than he had thought China would pay.

This was going to be more difficult than it should have been. The standard defensive deployment was four battalions forward, two behind, with three more in reserve.

The problem was that in order to properly cover the line of defense, Song had had to deploy five battalions forward, and those his strongest. Three of the reserve battalions were between one-third and half strength, and the fourth was at three-fifths.

Luo was confident that they'd win. But it was going to be a near-run thing.

He sent out the command for his men to be ready. If he were Chamnadgar, and it appeared that his attack on the flanks was succeeding, he would have his force in the center ready to punch straight up the gut once the defenders had deployed their reserves to keep him from rolling up the position.

Of course, that would mean that there would be no hope of exploiting the breakthrough, because Luo was sure that even in the unlikely event that his men were forced to retreat he could inflict heavy enough losses on the Indians that they would be forced to reorganize, by which point the General would have deployed reinforcements.

Then again, as he thought about, Chamnadgar might not want to push further forward than the position Luo was occupying. His division was probably alone out here, and he wouldn't want to see it destroyed for no good purpose.

Which was what would happen, if he really tried to block the march.

As these thoughts went through his mind, he listened to the radio for any orders or word about what was happening.

Then he heard the transmission he'd been waiting for.

"Major, we're moving the reserves to the flanks."

"Understood, sir," Luo responded. "I anticipate a brigade attack on this position once the reserves are engaged. Requesting that divisional artillery be informed."

"Copy that, Major. Will advise them of the possibility and to be ready to use some of their guns in your support."

Luo breathed a sigh of relief. That would speed up the process, anyway, and minutes and seconds would count if Chamnadgar sent his last brigade in. Now, if it turned out that he didn't, he would be quite embarrassed, but that ambush in Iran had taught him that losing face was much better than losing men.

Besides, as he looked at what he could see, the Indian units weren't deployed defensively.

Ten minutes later, he heard the sounds of fighting redouble on the flanks.

Two minutes later, he saw the troops in front of him start rolling forward.

He keyed on the radio, calm as a frozen river. "They are coming. Requesting artillery support."

"Recieved. Two batteries will be yours in two minutes. Do not expect reinforcements for at least half an hour."

Left unspoken, he knew, was the possibility that they might not come at all. "Understood. Out."

He switched the radio to the frequency for the battalion. "The Indians are coming, and we are all that's left. They have the numbers, but we have the skill. We have been through the fire thrice now. Let us show them how outmatched they are. You know your orders. Command out."

He took a moment to look around. Doctrine called for the battalion command vehicle to be back behind the reserve company, but doctrine never envisioned an Overlord being used as such, and he also didn't have a reserve company. He had a reserve platoon.

Therefore, he'd deployed his Overlord, and the others, where they could provide support all along the line while remaining in hull-down positions. If they needed to, they could move, but he wanted to avoid that for as long as possible. This did lessen their mobility, but that couldn't be helped, and Overlords weren't good for that anyway.

Based on the reports they'd gotten from Pakistan, it was hard for the Indians to kill an Overlord, but he knew it could be done, and he would need their firepower to usable as long as possible.

The Indian artillery began to land on his position just as a voice came over the radio. "Artillery support ready."

His Forward Observer began to speak, laying out the targets that he could see, and the sky rained fire down upon them all.

As he watched the screens on his display, he considered how he intended to play this out. The only real question was whether to open fire at the Overlords' maximum effective range or to wait until the Indians got in closer.

There was much to be said for either option. Waiting would mean the Indians would have less time to direct in artillery or air support onto the Overlords before reinforcements arrived. Opening fire now, however, would mean that fewer Indian tanks would reach their effective range against his defenses.

He decided to risk it. For one thing, they'd had to tow two of his Overlords into position, and that had been extremely effort-consuming. Better to use them up now than to have to blow them up by the side of the road later. Besides, it took a lot more ordnance to kill an Overlord than a Battlemaster, and enemies tended to focus their fire and attention on them. Which had its own advantages.

"Overlords. Commence firing. Target priority is the tanks."

He rocked backwards, then again, as his gunner fired. Apparently he'd been aiming in on a target before the order to fire, which was commendable initiative. He'd have to see to it that he was rewarded properly.

Right now, however, he had a battle to fight, and as the tank bucked and shuddered and rattled as rounds bounced off it and its guns fired he looked at his map display and issued what orders he could.

There weren't many. There was a flood tide of Indian units heading his way, and while icons showing confirmed kills were many, not all of them were among the attackers.

If he wanted to win, that being defined as having a battalion left by the time the Indians broke off the attack, he would need at least a three or four to one kill ratio, and while he had better than that right now, the Indian tanks were coming into their range, and...

"Aircraft coming in from the south," the radio said, and he wondered where they would strike and if he'd positioned his Gatlings and broken-down Overlords properly.

When he saw the direction they were coming from on his display, he smiled. He couldn't hear the anti-aircraft guns tearing the sky apart as the aircraft began their attack runs, but he could imagine it, and the when the shredded remnants of the sortie went back down to the south the Overlord they'd targeted had only had it's right tracks demolished. Since its engine had already completely broken down, this was no great loss, and its guns were still firing.

But now the Indians were coming into range, and even though they were firing on the move there was enough of them that they were starting to take a toll.

One of the Battlemasters went up in flames, and he noticed that the Indian mech infantry were starting to get to where their cargo could dismount and send anti-tank missiles their way.

"Battlemasters, target priority is the infantry carriers," he said coldly, doing the grim math in his head. The tank hunters would be able to take a much higher toll if the Indian infantry were forced to dismount or be slain before they even got the chance to fight. And it might force the Indian tanks to slow down.

Time. He needed time for the attacks on the flanks to be driven back, or for reinforcements to arrive.

All they needed was time.

* * *

Bai hawked up a gobbet of dust and spit and snarled. The Indians were throwing a lot more artillery at them than he would have thought they would have. He'd heard somebody say something about Russians, but he didn't believe it.

This artillery barrage was the work of professionals, and from what he'd heard the Russian performance at Samarkand had been amateurish.

He did remember hearing about a regiment that had withdrawn in good order. But that didn't matter—being good at retreating was no mark of distinction.

He poked his head up and looked through the firing slit of the Bunker to see if the assault was coming in.

The tanks and personnel carriers that were rolling forward told him what he needed to know, which was that he and his men were about to earn their pay. And...they were Russian. That was a surprise, but it didn't really matter to him who he shot, as long as they were an enemy.

"Tank Hunters, fire!"

Following his own order, he brought his weapon to his shoulder, locked on to a personnel carrier and sent a missile downrange.

It missed, but he saw another one explode, and two of the tanks went up as well. But that wasn't nearly as many as there should have been, and he feared that he knew the reason why. He took a moment to look at the viewslits that faced to the sides, and saw that many of the other Bunkers were blasted, smoking ruins as were several Gatling cannons.

He cursed. This was not good.

And the artillery was still coming in, and the Russians were still rolling forward. In fact, the lead tanks were almost at the far edge of the bombardment, and they showed no signs of slowing. That was bad. That was very bad.

And the far edge of the artillery was coming in closer to him. That was even worse.

He had just resigned himself to the fact that no matter what he did they were going to lose even as he reloaded to try and see if he could take another Russian out when a tank round slammed into the bunker right next to his ﬁring slit, and he knew no more.

* * *

Chernov smiled unpleasantly as his men took apart the right of the Chinese positions considerably faster than the Indians had thought he would. He knew that General Singh had planned for him to take four hours to pry the Chinese out of there. He had had no intention of taking that long, because he had gotten rid of all the deadwood by assigning them to prestigious-sounding but meaningless assignments and putting those of their subordinates who seemed competent in their old positions.

He still couldn't believe the Chinese had let him get away with positioning his artillery in enﬁlade of their line. That had made setting up the creeping barrage so much easier. He would not have wanted to have the divisional artillery ﬁring over his men's heads. That was why his regimental artillery battalion had been the only one deployed on-line with the assault elements, and the reinforced battalion that was the remnants of the rest of the division had been sent to keep the Chinese from trying something like sending some Overlords to turn his ﬁre support into scrap metal.

Now, however, as his men created the ridgeline, he could see the Chinese soldiers running for their lives, and while he could count at least half a dozen Russian vehicles burning and smoking, which meant his casualties were probably three times that, those were acceptable losses, considering that he'd kicked them off the ridge an hour early. And if those Overlords showed up, well, they were what anti-tank missiles were meant for. And...yes, the battalion on the right was taking up defensive positions to defend against a counterattack from Khujand, the one on the left was still rolling forward, and the reserve battalion was moving as well. He turned on his radio. "Khalkin Gol. Repeat, Khalkhin Gol."

That was the good thing about Russian training. When you were already inclined to stick to the plan no matter what, suddenly flexible communications weren't quite as important.

* * *

Black Lotus fumed as she tried to do something, anything, to retrieve the situation in Khujand.

There was precious little she could do about it, unfortunately. The Russo-Indian force had gone virtually radio silent, with their only communication being code words that seemed to vary from unit to unit. The Russian pocket division that seemed to be led by the only oﬃcer to come out of Samarkhand with an enhanced reputation—and one that was well earned—was using Russian battles, one of the Indian formations was using victories won by the Maratha empire, another was using battles of the British Indian Army—it was a mess.

For her, anyway. It probably made perfect sense for them. But even if she couldn't effectively hijack their communications, she could at least squelch them, and she took a moment to bless whoever had put a sleeper worm onto General Singh's computer during one of his visits to Beijing. That bit of luck, along with some doubtlessly sloppy information security, had allowed her to get into the Indian forces attacking Khujand. She pressed a button, and slagged the coms for the entire attacking force. That wouldn't stop Khujand from falling, but it should give the defenders time enough to disengage in reasonably good order and not in a rout.

There wasn't any more she could do there, though, and she turned her attention to the north for a moment. Chamnadgar's attack had wrecked the division he'd been facing, but his had been unable to exploit the breakthrough. Meanwhile, the Russians in Tashkent had failed to learn from Samarkand, and she had once again subverted their signals. The city was theirs, and now there was nothing between them and home except for the Politburo and Leang.

She frowned then. She and the others had been assuming that the old men in Beijing would wait until they got back to China to try anything. What if they thought they could get away with it in, for instance, Almaty? That would make sense to those paranoid geriatrics. That way they'd have more time to prepare if Wu decided to resist arrest.

She needed to ﬁnd some way to let the conspirators know that was a possibility, so they could be ready. Meanwhile, she was going to try and make the Politburo think that arresting Wu before they arrived in China would be a very bad idea. She tapped her chin. This would have to be a multi-staged approach.

First, emphasize the possibility of another attack coming somewhere along the route. This was not unlikely, especially if the Indians decided to really try and make a play to take China's mantle as the most powerful country in Asia. It was a long way from Tashkent to the border, and while the road network to the south of the mountains was really pretty terrible, a suﬃciently determined and lucky commander might be able to get a blow in at or near Almaty.

Second, while talking about that and mentioning the usual unsettling effect that replacing a commander had on his men, carefully emphasize how loyal Wu's men were to him. If the Politburo though there might be armed resistance to an arrest, they might wait until they were close to an army base, one where the troops didn't know Wu. Of course, the fact was that the units stationed in Western China knew him extremely well, but the Politburo didn't understand that.

She smiled. The road was coming to an end.

For everyone.

* * *

Lin was ready to collapse. Wu had been overseeing three battles during the past twenty-four hours, though Tashkent had been the main focus of his effort. At least Khujand hadn't been attacked until after the Indians had been stopped cold well away from the highway. They might hit them with harassing ﬁre, but they couldn't stop the retreat. And she had been running communications the whole time, which had required some prioritization on her part as she tried to determine what the General needed to know and what he didn't.

She thought she'd done what she needed to do, and Wu seemed to agree—he'd actually told her that she'd done a good job when the fighting stopped, which given his rather distracted state right now was high praise indeed.

However, her work still wasn't quite done yet. The troops falling back from Khujand were still in danger of being cut off and destroyed, and getting everyone through Tashkent in a timely fashion required constant attention to clearing out traffic snarls and the like.

As if that wasn't bad enough, there was also the fact that she'd received a message from nowhere and no one, and that message had been "Be prepared for arrest before return."

That had been disturbing for several reasons. First, whoever sent it had done so during one of the very brief lulls in radio traffic, and had sent it only to her, which meant that she had received the message loud and clear and that whoever it was had access to the entire communication net and could direct their transmissions.

Second, it also meant that whoever it was knew that she was working with the conspirators.

Third, it reminded her that if the Politburo or Leang did try something before they got back to China, that would make the journey back that much more difficult.

Fourth, she now had to get the message to General Huang, somehow.

She sighed. Life had been simpler back when it was just them against the GLA.


	17. Chapter 17

Chamnadgar looked bitterly at the map in front of him. The Chinese rearguard was falling back unmolested, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The first reason was because he had the only friendly forces in the area—well, aside from the surviving defenders of Tashkent, who didn't amount to more than a weak regiment. That was because, when the Chinese had taken out the communications of the force attacking Khujand, it had ended up delaying them for nearly twelve hours while they brought everything back up, rekeyed and reprogrammed their radios, and then re-established the network. That had been more than enough time for the surviving Chinese troops to break contact and make their way towards Tashkent, and by the time the survivors reached the city most of the rest of the Chinese force had already passed through, and that had been a day ago.

Presently, the Chinese brigade that had been blocking him from pushing forward was withdrawing, and the nearest Indian forces besides his were two hours away from the city. It was an excellent opportunity, especially because they were the last unit left before the rearguard brigade.

However, that didn't matter, because of the second reason he couldn't do anything about it. His division was too wrecked. None of his battalions had more than half of its vehicles online, a third of his men were casualties, and they were still trying to reorganize.

The worst part of it all was that he'd told his superiors what would happen, and it had gone almost exactly as he thought it would. Not that that made him feel any better, but at least he'd made his objections to the plan before it started, and he'd done better than anybody had had a right to expect. He might have delayed the fall of Tashkent by an hour or so, since the Chinese had had to divert some of their artillery and follow-up units to stop him, had finished a Chinese division as a combat force, and had heavily damaged the brigade that had stopped him from going any further.

Now General Singh was coming here, and he feared he knew what he was going to say. The men in New Delhi would be seeking to pin the blame for all the casualties on him, and he knew Singh was the type to deliver that sort of news in person, not over a phone—one of the many things that made him much more popular than his superiors.

Chamnadgar wondered if he would be relieved-for-cause and then court-martialed, or if he would be reassigned somewhere where he would be out of sight and out of mind.

"General Singh is five minutes out, sir," his aide said, and he looked up.

"I'll be right there," he replied, and stood to go walk out the door to the landing site.

When the commander of the Indian forces north of Pakistan stepped out of the helicopter, Chamnadgar expected that he would be scowling. Instead, he just looked…serious. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Once they got all the ceremonies and pleasantries out of the way, they sat down in Chamnadgar's office.

"You think I'm here to relieve you, don't you?" Singh asked.

"That was what I thought. Was I wrong?"

"Yes. Your division did a better job than anyone who actually knows anything expected it to. When New Delhi asked if I thought you should be relieved of your command I told them you should be promoted. They didn't agree to that, but you're not going to be sent off to Gujarat."

That was good.

"So what am I going to do?"

"You're going to rebuild this division," Singh said flatly, "and we're going to be tapping you for advice on how we should change the training program for after the war. Right now, however, I want you and your men to rest and keep Tashkent under control. We're not going to catch the Chinese, but I intend to follow them all the way to the border, unless New Delhi gets cold feet. Even so, the war's almost over, now, and there's going to be a lot of work to do if we want to avoid making the same mistakes. You'll be part of that—my word on it."

Chamnadgar didn't smile—the deaths of his men were too fresh for that—but that was excellent news.

"Thank you sir."

"It was a pleasure," Singh replied. "Now, I know you haven't had a lot of time, but I'd like to get your initial impressions."

As Chamnadgar began to talk about the attack, he saw a vision of India, great as it should be, shielding South Asia from the dragon and the bear. It pleased him.

* * *

Luo was tired. And for more reasons than the lack of sleep.

His battalion had held the line. Held for four hours, until the units to his left had collapsed and he'd been forced to retreat in order to avoid being surrounded.

He'd been almost grateful that both disabled Overlords had survived. It had made the decision of who to leave as the rearguard considerably easier. And they'd needed that rearguard. Badly.

The Indians had been on top of them until they reached the Overlords, and had come up back behind what was left of his battalion within thirty minutes after that.

By then, however, the reinforcements had arrived, and they'd stopped the Indians where they stood.

The price had been high. The division had lost half of its remaining men, and it had already been understrength from Iran. By now, it was the strength of a reinforced brigade.

He wasn't sure why they'd been assigned to be the headquarters guard for the General, though. He would have thought that honor would go to one of the divisions that had made its way from Europe with him.

Then again, they weren't technically his headquarters guard. They were just the division that the General's headquarters was in the middle of—and his battalion was the one right behind the General's headquarters.

It was a high honor, but he wasn't sure why he and his men had it. Yes, they'd fought hard and well—he was in the middle of writing one of the many recommendations for commendation that his men deserved—but that was true of many other units.

Of course, there was the strange conversation he'd had with General Shang this morning, about an hour before he'd found out where his battalion's place was going to be in the line of march.

He still wasn't entirely sure what that had been all about. Shang had essentially asked him if he blamed the General for what had happened to the division, which was strange. Majors were almost never asked what they thought of the decisions of army commanders, even in the most extraordinary circumstances.

Fortunately, he'd been able to tell the truth, which was that he didn't blame the General at all. The Indian attack had been one of those things that should never have happened, because there was no chance that they could have accomplished anything that could have been their objective. Had they, say, attacked yesterday, as the army withdrew from Tashkent, they might have held up the division long enough for the rest of the Indian army to arrive, and possibly cut them off and destroy them.

But trying to relieve Tashkent? Impossible, under the circumstances.

He didn't think any better of the General because of how he handled it—that was to say, as well as he could have, which was to get reinforcements over as fast as possible—but that was because, at the point where one thought of a general as the General, anything less than him being Sun Tzu reborn couldn't elevate his opinion.

He hadn't said that, of course. He didn't want to sound like he was trying to curry favor. But he had told Shang the gist of what he thought.

His commander had nodded, said "Excellent," and after inquiring as to the state of his battalion—which, while not really combat-ready, was better than any other battalion in the division—had left.

Frankly, the more he thought about the conversation the more disturbed he became.

And then it hit him, just as his Overlord, one of the last three in the battalion, went over a rather large bump in the road and he rocked back and forth in his chair.

Shang had been asking if, should something happen like the Politburo deciding that Wu needed to be arrested, he would side with the General or those sent to arrest him, and he'd been too exhausted to see what was going on until now.

He cursed himself for a fool. He was in a bad position now, and no mistake about it. If the Politburo came for the General, there was no way that he'd be able to claim he wasn't involved, even though he hadn't been. Well, aside from immediately turning on him and then claiming that he had acted as he did only to gain the trust of the conspirators in order to infiltrate them. Simply doing nothing was very unlikely to work, if the Politburo were so paranoid as to arrest the General.

If he didn't want to end up in a re-education camp or an unmarked grave, with the rest of his family joining him, he'd have to defend the General against whoever came for him or fire on his comrades and friends.

He took a moment to curse himself again, then sighed. How had he ended up in a position where he would have to engage in an act of betrayal in order to have any chance of survival?

Enough self-pity. Now he needed to determine how on earth he was going to get out of this.

* * *

Leang was trying to decide what she should do. The Politburo had finally made a decision and ordered her to arrest Wu—apparently that unexpected Indian attack and the resultant losses had made them think that the army might be less inclined to look too closely into the corruption charges.

Leang doubted it, but if it got those old men to let her do her job, she would not complain. Now she just needed to decide where to arrest Wu.

There were two possibilities. The first was Almaty, the second was at the forward base in Xinjiang. They both had their advantages and disadvantages.

Almaty would get the matter out of the way faster, and would be less visible to the underground press, which was non-existent once one got past the border. Also, it offered the potential to "lose" Wu in transit in a way that Xinjiang did not.

However, the remoteness that meant it would be easy to hide the arrest until they were ready to announce it would also mean that it would be harder to control the situation on the ground and to make preparations. Further, she and the Politburo would be considered responsible for whatever happened after replacing Wu, and if the Indians should manage to cut off and destroy part of the army, the results might be...unpleasant.

Xinjiang had none of those problems. She had handpicked every officer there down to the battalion level, and it was at full strength, unlike Wu's divisions, which were starting to lose vehicles at a rapid rate as the accumulated maintenance problems of thousands of kilometers of service with bare-bones facilities and parts finally took effect. Also, all the intelligence reports indicated that no one intended to cross into the old borders, even the Indians—whose General Staff apparently intended to stop at Almaty, though their top field commander wanted to go further.

However, it also delayed the arrest, which meant there was more time for her plans to leak, and it meant that if Wu should resist arrest and succeed, that there would be less time to gather an army to stop him.

She considered them both for a moment and decided to go with Xinjiang. Wu cared for his soldiers. If they were surrounded by a full division, ready to fight, he would go quietly to spare his men. Against the forces she would be able to take to Almaty, which would be only her own security battalion, he would have an excellent chance of resisting arrest with minimal casualties.

Also, his men would be less inclined to do something foolish as well. Her agents were still not sending their reports to her in their usual manner, but the messages she had received indicated that his men would follow him to Hell—which meant that she would need as many advantages as possible when she arrested him. If she did it under the guns of an entire division, it would be much more likely that he would be injured if they attempted something, which meant they would be much less likely to do so. Yes, this was a good plan.

Now she just needed to make it happen.

* * *

Lin looked at what she'd just done and felt vaguely sick.

It just seemed wrong, to go behind the General's back like this, even if it was for his benefit. Especially when it was aimed at the Chinese military, rather than a foreign military.

There were several skills that every good communications officer needed-managing people, managing time, clear and concise on-the-fly summarization. Lin had all of these. A great communications officer, however, could not only configure communications, but the route they took. And Lin had never been content with just being good.

Such modifications to the hardware and software were, of course, officially very much against regulations and could get you administrative punishment if they were discovered. In practice, nobody cared unless the rerouting caused problems.

This, however, was the kind of modification that would get her in serious trouble if she were discovered. This one was specifically designed to ensure that she could send and receive messages from a particular source without _anyone_ knowing about it besides her and them.

Admittedly, most military communication systems were built to be as limited as possible, but as a general rule one's superiors were supposed to be able to know what one was doing.

And she'd just cut them out of the loop entirely, at least if she used this particular channel.

Then again, she reminded herself, if Leang and the Politburo did decide to arrest the General, they didn't deserve to be informed of anything besides his demands for their surrender.

Even so, it was hard to overcome the habits of a lifetime of deference to authority, and she wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to keep her current subterfuge going—especially now that Wu no longer really had to worry about fighting his way through enemy defenses, but could now focus on holding off the attacks on the rearguard, something she knew he could do in his sleep.

This meant that he might be able to spend more time on what was going on around him, and that worried her. After all, he was a remarkably intelligent man, and he was rather discerning about people. If he didn't already know that there was a conspiracy among his officers to prevent him from being arrested, and that she was a part of it, it would not take him long to find out.

And then what would he do?

Lin paused for a moment.

She knew what he wouldn't do, of course—try to get them to help him seize power. He was a good man, and would not sacrifice others for his ambition. Especially civilians, after that mess with the Three Gorges Dam.

She _didn't_ know what he would do if he found out about it.

Report them to the Politburo? Unlikely. Wu was a straight arrow, to be sure, but these were, in many cases, his friends, and turning them over to the Politburo would be an act of nearly unfathomable betrayal. No, he wouldn't do that.

Do nothing? More likely than betraying them, but he wasn't the sort to sit by and do nothing.

Would he try to reason them out of it? Claim that China was greater than any one man, and that if he was the price of its stability he'd gladly pay it and they should let him?

That sounded like the kind of thing that he would do. Very noble and heroic. In fact, he'd probably not only do that, but also order them not to intervene, although that would run afoul of what one of her mentors had called "The First Rule of Command"—never give an order you _know_ will not be obeyed.

So now she would have to try and manage things so that he never caught wind of what his officers were planning.

Life was so much simpler when all she had to worry about was the ELA and the Americans. For that matter, when they'd been fighting the GLA there'd been less to worry about.

* * *

Wu was worried, and he didn't know why.

Well, that wasn't quite true.

He'd misevaluated the Russians and Indians rather badly, and that had him more than a little shaken. Yes, he'd thought they were going to be harder to defeat than they'd turned out to be, which was much better than underestimating them, but it had been a long time since he'd misread an opponent that badly.

Admittedly, that one attack outside of Tashkent had been quite competently executed, so far as it went—he would have liked to have worked with Chamnadgar, under other circumstances—but it had been an operational failure, leaving the Indians unable to pursue his men closely, and he had no idea why they'd launched it.

Even so, he still had this niggling feeling that he needed to husband his men extremely carefully, that there would be more fighting up ahead and he needed troops and units who were ready to fight.

It made absolutely no sense. There was nothing between him and China but road, and the vanguard of the march had already reached Shymkent, less than a day away from the border. There was no sign that the Indians were coming to try and cut them off, and the Russians weren't moving any forces to do so either. There was that pocket division that had torn apart his men in Khujand, but they were behind his men and the lead Indian divisions in the pursuit force, and were unlikely to catch up.

Was it the GLA? Impossible. The GLA was gone, and was never coming back. There might be another organization like it—actually, there certainly would be, there would always be those who decided that if the world wasn't exactly to their liking it needed to be burned—but it was gone, and assembling another force large enough to even delay his men, much less stop them, was impossible to do in the amount of time anyone wishing to do so would have.

That wouldn't stop some people from trying, though, and he wrote down a quick note to have all the surviving Helixes drop troops at various choke points between the army and China. The rebuilt Bishkek rail bridge, in particular, was important.

That was something he should have done yesterday, but it still didn't account for why he felt the need to conserve his forces, beyond the fact that he didn't like losing men under his command.

What other battles were left to fight? Perhaps someone would start a rebellion, once the war was over, as often happened in China after a major loss.

Or maybe the League would continue to attack them, even after Chinese forces had withdrawn behind its borders.

One of those was probably it.

Of course, that also didn't explain the strange looks and sudden silences that had been occurring whenever he came across some of the other officers. It wasn't as though it was menacing, exactly, it was just that several conversations over the past few days since they'd pulled out of Tashkent had undergone very abrupt changes of subject the moment their participants noticed him.

However, none of it seemed to be directed at him.

It was all most strange.

Right now, however, he had orders to give.

"Major Lin."

"Yes, General?" she asked.

He looked up at her. There was something…off…in how she'd said that. Like she'd been thinking about something that she was very much not supposed to be thinking about and had just been caught at it.

"Is everything all right, Major?" he asked. A distracted communications officer was never a good thing, and if it was a problem he could deal with he intended to do so.

"Yes sir," she replied. "I was just thinking about what's going to happen when we get home."

Wu blinked. He had to admit, he hadn't really thought about what would happen when they returned to China, beyond the fact that once they did they'd most likely be safe.

He spoke slowly. "I imagine they'll probably hold us all for debriefing. I don't think they'll let anyone return home on leave for a little while, though. Not until the war's over, but I don't think that'll be long."

He hadn't heard about the effects of the blockade, but it was almost certainly hurting China worse than anyone else. Exports made up a much larger percentage of China's economy than most of its major opponents, and it was cut off from all of its trading partners, while the members of the League could all trade with each other.

Throw in the fact that there were hundreds of thousands of Chinese prisoners, and it was highly unlikely that the Politburo would hold up peace negotiations for long. He wondered, for a moment, why no one had yet proposed such negotiations. Had everyone been waiting to see what would happen here in Central Asia?

He decided not to flatter himself. There were certainly other reasons for it, like the unrest in his old sector of the Occupied Zone. That hadn't really been a surprise, honestly, although he had to admit that it was a bit stinging to realize that he almost certainly hadn't been facing the full force of the ELA when he beat them. Then again, it was good to remember that the enemy could do foolish things as well.

But that still left the question of why he thought there were still enemies to face.

Hopefully it would come to him soon.

"Don't worry, Major," he said. "Once we get to China, everything will be all right. Now, here are my orders..."

* * *

Black Lotus was quite pleased. So far, she'd managed to keep Leang from finding out about the plans Wu's generals had for if she tried to arrest him. Now she needed to find out how Leang planned to arrest him, and determine how to deal with said plans.

One might have expected her to be somewhat worried, considering that she was hacking into secure military communications, but she smiled slightly as she made her way carefully into the Xinjiang data network. She'd been involved with China's cyberwarfare development for so long that, at one point or another, she'd placed backdoors into every system at the brigade level or higher.

The best part was that she'd been cleared to do it, too, by those old men in the Politburo. They'd wanted a way to cause problems for any would-be rebels, and having a ready-made way in had seemed like a good idea to them.

Now they were about to be bitten by their own snake, and she felt great pleasure in the thought, as much as she'd ever experienced with the man she would always think of as The General, though she knew that in the minds of most of the men who had made this March that name was now General Wu's.

She would not begrudge him that—even she was not sure if her lover could have done as well as Wu—but she could not and would not follow. Not at least until she had time to mourn properly.

Then...perhaps.

She paused for a moment. Would Shin Fai have wanted her to do this? To avenge his death by starting a war that would certainly kill tens of thousands of Chinese, possibly millions if they did not win quickly, in order to end the Politburo and Leang?

Then again, had it not been for their mad plan to arrest Wu, this would not have been the path she would have chosen. She would have found something...neater. A series of plausible accidents, most likely. There were so many vital things in modern life that involved computers somewhere.

Instead, the old men had decided to turn on their best and most loyal general, simply because Leang, who'd been the one who assigned the four generals to the Occupied Zone, then turned on the one who was the most effective because he dared to not surrender or die in place, but instead salvaged something from the wreck.

It was all rotten to the core, and China would suffer far more if the deadwood were not cleaned out. Even if Wu let things go to his head and seized power himself, it would be better than their current masters—he would at least bring new men to the table, who had more qualifications than their ability to flatter their superiors and step on their subordinates while feathering their own nests without getting caught.

She smiled thinly. Her explorations had netted her a lot of information. She had a not-so-little list, and they never would be missed.

And…she was into the Xinjiang garrison's network. Now, when...ah. Good. Leang would be there within four days, and would remain there until Wu arrived. She was also bringing her security battalion with her, unsurprisingly—also unsurprising was that the officer in charge of base housing was Not Happy, since he was having to improve one of the guest barracks-wouldn't do for the watchdogs to be treated like any other military unit would be, after all.

They were also setting things up for a snap exercise in the next two weeks, and she nodded. While the higher-ups in the garrison division were Leang's creatures to a man, her hold on the lower ranks was less secure-and while some of her officers could inspire confidence, most were prone to relying primarily on her patronage rather than merit. That would be how they would cover up the preparations to arrest Wu.

Of course, sensible officers, like the General—either of them, she thought—made sure they gave their patronage only to competent officers. Leang had not, mostly because of how vast her network was. Black Lotus estimated that she controlled three-quarters of the officers who were field-grade and above in the interior forces.

She thought that made her invulnerable, that the soldiers and company-grade officers would follow the majority of their superiors. In ordinary times, that would have been true. But if it came down to following the hero of the March or Leang, who hadn't fought an actual battle her whole career, the issue became much less clear.

To make things even better, apparently there was some discussion of what to do if Wu's men resisted and successfully prevented their general from being arrested. Apparently the garrison would retreat east and meet reinforcements from elsewhere—including both divisions from Taiwan.

She snarled. Leang would risk throwing another of Shin Fai's accomplishments away to maintain her hold on power? She would not let this happen if she could do anything about it, of that she was certain.

The problem was that Taiwan was nearly hermetically sealed from the mainland, which meant that it would be nearly impossible to do her usual work. She might be able to block communications, but she doubted it—the Politburo had secured the links to Taipei even against her, for reasons that she did not understand. The only communications more closely guarded than those were the ones to the Strategic Rocket Forces.

She hoped that, if it came to it, even the old men in Beijing would balk at using those weapons on their fellow Chinese, or that the soldiers would, because there would be nothing she could do about it.

She smiled then. There was something she could do about that, anyway. The Internet was not free in China, that was true. But there were places where information was free, if you knew where to look.

And, more than any other person, she did—and she knew the places where the soldiers swapped gripes and stories and rumors. She should have started dropping in information days ago, though she had little doubt that some of them were already talking to each other. She should devote special attention to the ones frequented by the soldiers who manned the missile silos.

There would be interesting times for certain people. That was for certain.


	18. Chapter 18

As Leang looked at the soldiers passing by her, she felt a brief pang of regret for what she was about to do. They did not look like an army that had retreated thousands of miles in less than two months—no, they looked like an army that had advanced thousands of miles in less than two months.

Yes, they were ragged, tattered, and torn. The vehicles looked like they were all on the verge of breakdown, the uniforms she could see all had holes and patches, and she could smell the body odor of the soldiers over the diesel and gun oil of their equipment, and it was _rank_.

Even so, every man she could see had his head held high and walked with a certain swagger in his step. Even the tanks almost seemed to trundle along brashly, and their commanders surveyed the world like they owned it.

It was unfortunate that she would have to arrest and remove the man who had inspired these soldiers so.

At the same time, however, that pang of regret was more than matched by the fear the sight created in her. Any man who could inspire such feelings in his soldiers was a definite threat to her position, and a potential threat to the Politburo, which meant that she hadn't really been lying to them. Yes, the old men in Beijing would not have any regrets once she showed them the footage that her cameramen were recording—they might even bring her further into their counsel.

However, that fear also reminded her that she would have to handle arresting Wu with extraordinary care. The men marching in front of her right now were survivors from the units that had been shattered in Northern Europe. She didn't even want to think about what the troops who'd been under Wu's command from the beginning would be like, and what they might be willing to do for him.

She was very, very glad that she hadn't decided to arrest Wu in Almaty. Here in Urumqi, though, with a division at her back, she could manage it, and would. Everything had been arranged properly. Once the troops reached the eastern outskirts of town, they were being moved into newly-built barracks and turning in their firearms and vehicles for maintenance. That all of their equipment really desperately needed it had prevented any suspicion from developing so far, and it meant that most of his men would be disarmed by the time any word reached them that he had been arrested.

However, there were some things that were bothering her. First, she hadn't been able to prevent the garrison in Ili from sending maintenance and repair crews with replacement parts and vehicles once Wu's forces had crossed the border. Second, the reports for which units they'd worked with were vague and garbled at best, but all of them indicated that most of the work had gone into the units on the western end of the march. That was understandable, since that was the end that might actually be attacked, but the Indians had stopped in Almaty, and showed no signs of moving forward. The Russians had moved a little further forward, to Shelek, but they, too, were digging in—and were doing a rather good job of it—but that still meant they were not attacking. In fact, neither had launched so much as an airstrike on the column in a week.

At least she'd gotten the orders to Taiwan off. The two garrison divisions were ready to move on a moment's notice, now, and if they received no communication from her in the next twelve hours, they were to sail to the mainland immediately. They were loading the ships now, as part of a "training exercise."

Before issuing those orders she'd considered whether Taiwan would take the opportunity to try and secede, but had decided that was unlikely. After all, Shin Fai had been quite conciliatory when he led the annexation force, and if the government had started cracking down afterward…well, the island needed to know that it was also part of the Middle Kingdom, no more special than the rest of it. And they would not be so foolish as to rely on the Americans who had let them down little more than a decade ago.

And if this failed, she and the Politburo would need all the reliable units they could find. And everyone in those divisions was politically reliable. And if Taiwan did revolt, they could always come back later with fire and sword.

She smiled. That would be…pleasant, to truly scourge the sons of the men who had opposed the Chairman and not taken their medicine when they'd lost. But now, she had more unpleasant business to attend to, and her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of Wu's command vehicle.

She'd chosen her sight well. The road the soldiers were going down made a dogleg right before and right after this spot, which meant that few of them would be able to see anything of what happened. Also, in the noise of the crowd, it would not be apparent that he was being arrested, as long as she didn't do something foolish like lead him off in chains. It would simply look like one commander taking another aside, and by the time anyone realized what was really going on nearly all of Wu's men would be safely sequestered.

Hopefully.

* * *

Wu was worried. He'd gone out of battlethought after Tashkent, and he'd been quite relieved, finally managing a good night's sleep.

But this morning, when he'd woken up, he'd found that it had come back. And he still didn't understand why.

He and his men were home. The League and its allies were showing no signs of attacking China itself. None of the restless internal groups seemed to be revolting, from what reports he was getting.

So why was he…

Then he caught sight of General Leang, and he wondered why she hadn't been on the reviewing stand. Then he wondered why he hadn't heard that she was here—she was, technically, his commanding officer, and he should have gone to meet her if she was here.

Something wasn't right, and he picked up his binoculars to get a better look at her. The way she stood, the set to her face…he knew that look.

She was about to place him under arrest.

For _what?_ He hadn't disobeyed a single order. Never voiced a disloyal thought—never really had one, beyond thinking that her policies in the Occupied Zone were counterproductive.

But surely the Politburo wouldn't let her arrest him for _that?_ Perhaps they didn't know.

That was probably it.

But now he had to decide what to do.

It didn't take long to make the choice.

He'd go quietly. The troops lining the sides of the road now took on a more sinister air, and his men were unaware of any need to be wary. And even if that wasn't the case, to resist arrest would risk plunging China into civil war at one of the worst moments imaginable. Yes, the League was showing restraint now. But would it be able to resist temptation if his country began to tear its own guts out, particularly its Asian members who had long feared and hated the Dragon?

He feared it would not, and he steeled himself to not oppose what was coming. He wondered if they would re-educate him first, or if they'd just shoot him. He'd prefer the latter.

At least he was single, an only child, and had no living parents. He didn't even have cousins, that he knew of. No one else would be brought down with him.

Well, perhaps not. Major Lin…with any luck, she'd see what was happening and denounce him quickly. Trying to tell her to do so at this point would be worse than useless.

He'd try to talk them out of cuffing him. He doubted Leang would try it, anyway. She'd want to make his arrest as unobtrusive as possible—make it look like she was simply debriefing him. She wouldn't want to run the risk of starting a firefight.

But _why?_

* * *

Luo's Overlord, one of the three remaining in his battalion, rumbled along behind the General's command vehicle. He wasn't sure how it was still moving, really, but it was—rather like the rest of Wu's army. And, like Wu's army, its work was almost done.

They'd made it home, and all they'd have to do for a little while would be to rest and refit.

Well, that assumed that no one tried to arrest the General, but he really doubted that would happen. After all, who'd be so foolish as to arrest him now, at his moment of triumph, with his army at his back?

That was when he noticed that Leang was up ahead, which he thought was odd. Why would she be here?

Then he noticed that Wu had tensed, like a man might if he were going to his execution.

Then he understood. Leang was going to arrest the General. Right here. Right now. In front of him.

Did he dare to do something about this? Would his men follow? What would happen to them if he did?

He stood there in the hatch for a moment, frozen, as the scenarios played themselves out in his mind. He saw himself firing on Leang, then brought down by his own men. Then firing on Leang, being followed by his men, then being brought down by the rest of the division. Then firing on Leang, being followed by his men and the rest of the division, then being brought down by the rest of the army. Then firing on Leang, being followed by his men and the rest of the army, and defeating the division here in Xinjiang. Then war engulfed the rest of China. The Politburo did not give up power easily, and they fought tooth and nail. He could not see it all, but he saw enough to know that many thousands would die. But there was victory. The Politburo overthrown. China reformed.

But then he saw himself turn aside from this. Saw Wu taken into custody, going quietly. Saw the army hear of it. Saw it go into battle without his leadership, seeking vengeance against those who slew them. Saw them defeating the forces here, with heavy losses. Saw them pushing east, fighting the Politburo's armies. The fighting was far more vicious, now, and lasted longer, for none of the generals who followed Wu were his equal. He could not see the end of this, but he knew it lasted long, and even more thousands died. He saw China fall apart, saw starvation and death as infrastructure failed.

There was no choice at all, really.

Luo looked carefully at what was in front of him. There was Leang, and a Helix, along with some of her personal guards. In fact…all that was there were some Helixes.

One was on the ground. Three were in the air. And the Overlord right behind him had a Gatling turret, and there were two more Gatling tanks behind the third Overlord. If they moved quickly, they should be able to take them out before they could blow the General to doll rags.

He paused for a moment before speaking into his radio. This was it. There was no turning back from what he was about to do. He would commit not only himself, but all the rest of the army to rebellion and civil war.

No. This was simply him giving them the choice. They could make their own decisions.

He spoke on the battalion frequency. "General Leang is here to arrest the General."

There was a brief babble of defiant incredulity before he spoke again. "Enough. I agree. Ma, Helix on the left. Wang, Helix in the center. Lee, Helix on the right. I will take the one on the ground. Does anyone object?"

No one spoke for a moment.

"Give the order, sir," Ma said, followed by what seemed like every vehicle commander in the battalion answering in the affirmative.

"Ready. Aim." The timing here was delicate, he thought as the turret shifted under him, ever so slowly. This needed to be close to simultaneous, but even political thugs would notice guns being aimed right at them.

"Give the word, sir," his gunner said.

" _Fire!_ " he yelled, before fear made him change his mind.

His Overlord's first round disintegrated Leang into a fine mist before it hit the Helix sitting behind her. The second round finished blowing the aircraft apart as the tearing sound of Gatlings firing split the sky and he looked up to see the airborne Helixes try to flee and fail as the Gatlings riddled them and set them alight, falling away from the road and the General.

He switched the radio to all frequencies. "They have attempted to arrest the General! The initial forces have been destroyed, but there are still more traitors remaining. Will we let them take him?"

"No, we will not," General Shang cut in. "Form your battalion around the General now, Major. The rest of the army stands with you."

The sounds of firing from behind him indicated that perhaps that was not entirely the case, but none of it sounded like it was coming from his battalion.

Luo switched frequencies back to the battalion. "Set up defensive positions! Ma, get your Overlord past the General's vehicle. First company, follow him and position yourselves to block the highway from any attempt from the east. Wuo, move to where I am presently and turn around. Third company, position yourselves around him to block any attack from the west. Second company, link the two. I'll be in the center."

He paused. "No turning back now, men. It's win or die, and it's us against the Politburo and all of China—but since we've the General, and they don't, I'd say the odds are in _our_ favor."

* * *

Black Lotus had been monitoring the communications net for what she knew was coming. She suspected that Leang wouldn't communicate over the radio and instead made a prearranged signal, but she was willing to bet that Wu's men would not be quite as prepared—which was why part of her time had spent making sure that every backdoor into Wu's army's communications was sealed off.

However, she'd spent most of her time infiltrating the communications for Leang's politicals and the garrison division. If she could keep Leang's creatures—for that was what the most of the officers of the forces stationed here were—from ordering their men to fire, she suspected that they would not fire on their fellow Chinese long enough to find out what had happened.

And she knew where the sentiments of most soldiers in the local garrison lay, because Wu had commanded them during some of the fighting in Western China. Leang had not.

So when she saw Helixes start to fall around Wu's last reported position, she immediately shut down all communications save for those of Wu's army. As word spread of what was happening among his men, some of them decided that they were going to attempt to fight for Leang, and within those units there were brief spates of firing before those forces were put down. Meanwhile, the garrison soldiers lining the streets, bereft of orders from their superiors, began to ask what was happening as the firing started and stopped.

When they found out, the firing would usually resume again, albeit briefly, almost always when messages arrived from headquarters to place Wu's men in custody, and almost always directed at the men giving the orders.

She smiled thinly as she watched the mutiny become a rebellion. She'd made sure to shut off all communications out of here. No one in the outside world would know what happened here for some time, though she doubted that would be long. However, it would give them enough time to reorganize and rearm those of Wu's men who had been disarmed, repair their barely-functional vehicles, and hopefully convince Wu to carry this through to the end.

She doubted that last would be hard—he would not consign his men to torment and death at the hands of the Politburo—but it would still need to happen.

Time. What everyone needed was time.

And she was going to give Wu and his men—and herself—as much of it as possible.

Now she needed to make sure that the proper information got to the right people, as quickly as possible.

The door flew open, and Sergeant Cao burst into the room.

"Ma'am, we need to get you to safety," the old veteran stated calmly, despite his obvious haste, as his men came in behind him. "There's fighting outside. It could be some sort of attack, and this building is somewhat exposed."

Black Lotus looked up at him, and wondered for a moment whether this would work. She had discarded any thought of seducing him from the first—men like the sergeant would not put aside long-held loyalties for sex. Nor would she offer him money or power, for the same reasons.

No, she knew how she had to appeal to him, though she did not know if it would succeed or fail.

"Sergeant," she said quietly, "do you know why General Leang was here?"

"No ma'am, I don't," he asked.

"She came here to arrest General Wu."

Cao's brow furrowed. "Arrest the General? What for?"

"Because she was worried that he would attempt to take her position, and she convinced the Politburo that he would attempt to overthrow them, so they trumped up corruption charges against him."

"Was this his idea?"

"No. He knew nothing of any of this—including the arrest."

"Then how did his men know that this was happening?"

Black Lotus took a deep breath. "Because I made sure that they found out about it."

" _What?_ "

"What do you think those old men in Beijing will end up doing after this war?" she asked. "This is the kind of defeat that has toppled Chinese governments, in the past. Rebellion is nearly inevitable, because in their paranoia about revolt, the Politburo will ensure that it will happen. And the results would be horrific. Millions dead, at least, and years of war."

Cao frowned. "How does this change that?"

"Because it changes the power equation. Instead of the people against the government, now it's the people and the army against the Politburo. That means a shorter war, and fewer dead at the end of it."

The old noncom seemed confused and suspicious. "So you're saying that you had to betray China in order to save it," he asked, and Black Lotus saw his finger move towards the trigger of his assault rifle.

"No, Sergeant," she said quietly. "I had to betray the Politburo in order to save China from them. They were willing to kill a man on the unsupported word of someone who had every reason to get rid of him. What do you think they would have done to China if it had risen against them, or even expressed its discontent?"

This was her only hope. To appeal to the sergeant's loyalty to China, and pray that it was greater than his loyalty to the Party and the Politburo.

"I…understand," the sergeant said slowly. "Do you really think the General can do that? Keep China from sliding into something like what happened before the Chairman took control?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Black Lotus replied. "I do."

He stood there for a moment, and she held her breath. If he chose Wu, then the future she projected might come to pass. If he chose the Politburo, her life would end not less than five seconds later.

"Sergeant…" one of his men began.

"Quiet, Jin," he ordered. "I'm thinking."

He looked at her. "I've served in the Army my whole life," he said. "And what you're saying sounds true. All of it. You hear things, when you've been around as long I have, and know as many people as I do. And you proved yourself in Italy." He looked to the side, then back at her, and she saw indecision replaced by resolve. "We'll follow your lead. Your orders, ma'am?"

She restrained herself from heaving a massive sigh of relief. "Secure this room and the building, Sergeant. I need to be undisturbed—unless General Wu or someone he sends comes for me."

"Yes ma'am," he replied, obviously relieved to be on familiar ground again.

As he began to give orders to his men, she began typing out the message that would land simultaneously on all of the major covert forums that the army frequented the moment that she lifted the communications blackout. She wasn't sure when that would be, but it would be best to have it ready.

 _Not long now, old men,_ she thought coldly. _Not long at all._

* * *

Lin looked at the General, who was sitting slumped in his command chair, as he had been for the past two hours. She had _never_ seen him like this, ever, but she had seen other men with the same symptoms.

He was in mental shock, and she knew why. He had been willing to go to his death, and he hadn't understood that none of his men were willing to let him do that—partially, admittedly, because it might have meant their deaths as well.

She was fairly sure that she would have died, anyway. They would have tortured her into confessing all kinds of things, and once they were done they would have shot her in the back of the head. Well, she might have broken before the torture, but she was fairly sure that the execution still would have happened. They wouldn't have run the risk of her retracting.

But now she no longer had to fear that. All she had to fear now were the same things that she had been facing ever since she joined the army. Now they might come at the hands of her countrymen rather than foreigners, and she would have to fight her countrymen to keep them from happening to her, but it was still better than being…re-educated.

However, if she didn't get the General thinking again, that possibility reared its ugly head once again, which she was reminded of as the sounds of the soldiers around them wafted through the still-open hatch. So far, she'd managed to keep a lid on things, since she'd used her modifications to inform Shang and the other generals that the General was…incapacitated due to mental shock. That couldn't last for long, and they needed him as soon as possible.

"General," she said, quietly, so as not to spook him.

"Yes, Major?" he asked, looking up at her with deep confusion and sorrow written across his face.

"Are you all right, sir?"

He breathed out a deep sigh.

"I never wanted this," he said, voice cracking a little. "Why would they do this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why would Leang want to arrest me? Why is the army tearing itself apart to keep me from being arrested?"

Lin squatted down. "Leang believed you would supplant her. The army had no intention of letting her kill the man who saved it."

"Why would she think that?"

"Because it's what she would have done, in your place." _And,_ Lin thought, _because she feared that Politburo would use you to supplant her whether you intended it or not._

"So all of this is happening because someone thought I was going to do something I never would have done in a million years?"

"Yes sir. And she convinced the Politburo that you would seek to overthrow them, using your reputation from this Long March," she said, capitalizing the words.

"So what you're telling me," he said, slowly, "is that all of this is happening because the Politburo decided to get rid of me because someone told them I was going to try and emulate the Chairman."

"Yes."

Wu cursed, then, for nearly five minutes straight without repeating a single malediction or expletive, without once raising his voice or making any kind of threatening move. Lin hadn't even known such a thing was possible.

Once he was done, he looked at her. "There's no going back now, is there?"

"No sir."

He sighed and looked down at the floor for a moment. "Let's get this done then. Maybe we can end this quickly enough that the League won't decide to take advantage of us fighting each other."

He then lifted his head and looked back at her, face set like flint. "Status report?"

She breathed a sigh of relief as she answered. "All fighting in the area has stopped. General Leang's security battalion has been neutralized. Nearly all of the units that marched here sided with us, and those few that did not were quickly dealt with. The local garrison's enlisted men and lower-grade officers did the same. The local field-grade officers have been dealt with as well. The air force went over to us as well, and has a combat air patrol up."

"Prisoners?"

"Very few, sir. The situation was…confused."

Wu sighed. "Who's in command over there now?"

"General Zhu, sir."

"Good man," he replied. "It's time to start talking. Get me in contact with the army—I've been wallowing in my confusion for far too long."

Lin switched the communications board back on, and Wu leaned forward in his seat.

"Soldiers of the Chinese army," he said, "first, allow me to extend my thanks for rescuing me from the corrupt machinations of General Leang and the Politburo. That you did so without my asking means more to me than I can say.

"But that also means we cannot rest. The Politburo will be coming for us, and they will marshal every resource at their disposal. I know you are weary, for I most certainly am, and we will take time to rest. But we will move as soon as we reorganize and refit, for we cannot allow the Politburo to marshal its resources, for presently they have control over all the rest of China."

He paused for a moment. "But even so, I have no fear of the final outcome. For you are the men who marched from Europe back home, despite little support from our allies and fierce opposition by our foes. The Politburo, in its craving for power, has now created the enemy it feared, and we will make a better China for us all!

"For now, my soldiers, gather yourselves, maintain security, and rest as best you can. We begin work tomorrow. Know that I am proud of you. General Wu, out." He turned to Lin and nodded, and she turned off the radio.

"Now get me in contact with all of the division and brigade commanders. We have work to do."

* * *

Ts'ai Lim crouched down just before the searchlight swept over his position. He'd served in the army before the mainlanders had annexed his country, and he'd kept it up as best he could during the occupation before he'd been forced to run for the hills, where simply surviving was a form of training for this work.

It hadn't been so bad at the beginning, but it hadn't taken long for the mainlanders to start strong-arming business owners into taking on useless "partners" whose only qualification was that they were Party members, cracking down on journalists who exposed corruption and malfeasance, and going after anyone who had ties to the old government, no matter how minor.

He'd been a special target, as a career soldier, and he had a daughter. Around six years after the occupation began, some young men had attempted to assault her while they were out and about one day, and he'd taken exception, done his fatherly duty, and beaten the snot out of them.

He'd discovered shortly afterward they were all the sons of Party members, and one of his few remaining friends on the police force had clandestinely contacted him and made it very clear that not only would his daughter's assailants not be facing charges, which he had expected, but that he was likely to be arrested and convicted for "disturbing public order." Then his friend had given Ts'ai a phone number to call.

Twelve hours later, he and his family's house burned down, with four bodies inside. Two hours after that, they were in the Xueshan Mountains, with others who had been forced from their homes by the mainlanders—and where he had found new purpose, training the men and women to fight as best he could.

And now they were about to put that training to use.

The island had been under a communications blackout for months—no one knew what was going on in the outside world, or at least was supposed to. But information tended to spread by osmosis, and what they'd been hearing, garbled and incomplete thought it was, had given them hope that, perhaps, they might be able to get rid of the mainlanders—and, this time, declare independence. No more of this silly claiming to be the legitimate government of China nonsense.

But there had always been the question of if it was all some kind of plot to get them to attack, then mousetrap and destroy them, and so they had stayed their hands.

However, the garrison soldiers had gone to the western ports days ago, and loaded up onto the ships with their equipment. And the day before yesterday they had sailed for the mainland. And yesterday they had unloaded onto the mainland, and done so in a tearing great hurry.

No one knew why that was happening, though everyone had their guesses.

However, no one cared.

The message had gone out that it was time to enact the plan, and that was why he was here, leading the team that would take out the governor, his daughter was on the other side of the city as part of the team that would bring down the State Security headquarters, and his son was attached to the force that was about to hit the shipyards.

His watch hit midnight, and the searchlights blew apart in a shower of sparks.

He was on his feet as quickly as he could be, groaning a little as his knees popped—this kind of thing was a young man's game, and if he was carrying his full kit from his army days he wouldn't have been able to manage it.

But he could still manage to sprint a hundred yards, which was how far it was to the wall and cover. As the others started to pass him, the first missiles from the fire support team struck the turrets that were coming online before they had the chance to fire, and he sighed in relief as he slid to a halt under the shadow of the wall along with all of his men, instead of the half or less that would have survived if the Gatlings had had the chance.

The engineers were but a second ahead of him, and it didn't take them long to put the charges in place. One of them looked at him, and he nodded as he caught his breath. The charge roared, the wall dropped, and the first team went through the breach.

The guards on the inside were competent and capable—they wouldn't have been assigned to protect the governor of a restless province if they weren't—but his team was not the only one assigned to this part of the attack, and a surprise assault like this would stun all but the best of soldiers for at least a moment.

Even so, he knew that it wasn't only the entry team's weapons that he heard firing, and he went through in the middle of the second wave to see that while the four-man mainlander team was down, two of his had fallen as well.

That still left him with eighteen, but it was only going to get harder from here.

"Move!" he yelled, and set the example by charging for the building, pushing through the burning in his legs and lungs. There would be time enough to rest once they were done, and he turned his head to the side and his shoulder forward just before he jumped to crash through one of the windows.

It was certainly an unorthodox plan, but the mainlanders' security consciousness had only extended to installing retractable shutters on the windows, not to making them safety glass, and he entered the room in a shower of shards.

The two mainlanders inside were still turning to see what had happened when he pulled the trigger on his assault rifle, cutting them down before they even really had the chance to realize that they'd been outflanked. He could feel some fragments in his cheek, but that was a small price to pay to not lose more of his team or be dead himself.

The others crashed in as he stood and poked his rifle out into the hallway, with a brief burst of gunfire coming from the room on the other side of the hall.

"Just like we trained. Move," he whispered, and his team towards their objective. The sounds of gunfire emanating from other areas of the building indicated that things were going, at least relatively, according to plan, which meant that they didn't have to initiate any of the contingency plans, at least not yet.

Since those plans involved splitting up his force, he was glad of that, especially since his team's job was to secure the building's communications room, which was the hub for all mainlander comms on the island. If that was secured, the resistance would—probably—be able to overrun the island with minimal casualties. If not, while they would probably still win, the cost would be far higher—and the chances of significant mainlander forces holding out until relief arrived went up as well.

Destroying it was an acceptable option, of course, but securing it would be far better, since then the resistance could use it to both communicate within itself and with the outside world.

He frowned, then. They should have run into some kind of opposition by now, because from what he could remember this spot wasn't far from…

The four men and women on the point team went down in a hail of gunfire from the corridor that they'd been about to go down, and he snarled. There they were, and they'd done their work well. Now he was down to fourteen.

But they were almost to their objective, and they would not be denied.

The team right behind the one on point had reacted well, though. They'd stacked up around the corner from the enemy and opened fire down the hallway, keeping the mainlanders' heads down while the second team sprinted to the other side.

The second team's leader looked at the other one and pulled out a grenade, and she nodded and pulled one out as well as he moved forward in front of the rearguard and engineers. From what he could recall from the debriefing, the hall that led to the communications room wasn't very long, and he wondered what cover the mainlanders were shooting from.

Then he realized it, and he opened his mouth to tell them to hold fire right as his men lobbed the explosives down the hallway, and his command turned to a curse—not at his men, but the general state of the world.

Right as he finished, the grenades went off, and the team on the far side charged down the corridor, firing as they went, hopefully not wrecking the room any worse than they already had. He ran after them, hoping to get the situation under control and that none of the mainlanders would open fire and cut everyone in the corridor down.

He heard a brief burst of fire ahead, though he couldn't see what his men were shooting at because they were all blocking the door, and then they split to the sides, he saw the room, and he would have sighed in exasperation had there not been a technician aiming a pistol at him.

He converted his run into a slide into the desk that the mainlander guards had been hiding behind and his men had thrown their grenades over—grenades that had done their work well, and shredded the men taking cover. Unfortunately, they'd also damaged whatever devices had been between them and the rest of the room, and he hoped they hadn't been vital ones.

He readied his rifle, pointed it towards where he remembered the technician being, and came to his feet in time to see him fall. There was no one else in the room that he could see, and there was nowhere for anyone else to hide.

Now it was time to look at the damage, see what needed to be repaired and could be repaired, then hold until relieved.

Hopefully.

 **A/N:** **There will be three weeks until the next chapter, which will also probably be the last.**


	19. Chapter 19

Harrison rubbed his temples. "Let me make sure I understand this correctly. The Politburo attempted to arrest General Wu in Xinjiang two days ago."

"Yes sir," Lightner replied. "Sources are still spotty, but from what we can tell, they failed thanks to the actions of some of Wu's soldiers. No word on whether the response was planned or spontaneous, but either way all Chinese forces in Xinjiang either sided with Wu or were eliminated by sunset of the first day."

"And so Beijing decided to pull its troops out of Taiwan, and almost as soon as the ships unloaded the troops the Taiwanese revolted."

"Yes sir. They've declared full independence as the Taiwan Republic, and have already requested recognition."

"I presume the Politburo is not taking this well."

"They don't seem to be, Mr. President, but I believe Secretary Cavender knows more about that than we do."

"Mr. Secretary?" Harrison asked.

Cavender winced. "They're not happy. The ambassador all but threatened to nuke Guam and Hawaii if we recognized the Republic. Things are especially fraught because they're panicking about their best general having apparently gone rogue, though I can't say I blame him. Also, General Leang has gone missing, and no one knows where she is, which is simply adding to their fear. And fearful men do stupid things."

"Director Lightner, what do we know about the situation in China?"

"It's confused, sir. The army seems to be splitting. As I said, Xinjiang and the force Wu led into China have declared for him. The troops that had been garrisoning Taiwan, and the units in Fujian and around Beijing have declared for the Politburo. Everywhere else seems to be trying to sit on the fence—I suspect allegiances will depend on which side reaches an area first."

Harrison nodded. Lightner had gotten Wu's chances of leading his army back to China badly wrong, that was for certain, but all of the rest of his analyses had been spot-on.

"Your evaluation of how likely they are to launch their missiles if we do anything about Taiwan?"

"Unknown. Ordinarily I'd say it was merely posturing, but if they think it will somehow help them hold onto power, they might. It wouldn't, of course, but Secretary Cavender is right—they might not be thinking too clearly. From what we know about how they think, none of them deal with change very well."

That was something that was not unique to the Chinese Politburo, Harrison thought dryly, but it was likely more extreme in their case. There were few enough people willing to tell him unpleasant truths, and he couldn't order people to be re-educated on a whim.

He turned to Yates. "What's the state of the blockade?"

"Excellent. A few ships made it through in the early stages, but ninety-five percent of all ingoing and outgoing vessels were intercepted. No ship has left or entered a Chinese port in the past month, aside from their own internal traders."

He smiled. "The seized cargo that we confiscated comes out to nearly one hundred billion dollars. Quite a sum."

Harrison nodded. It didn't come anywhere near to actually paying for the war, of course—the last cost estimate Secretary of the Treasury Hamilton had given him was that it would end up costing the United States alone more than three hundred billion dollars, much of it in medical costs and disability pensions—but it would help, and it would be yet another blow to the Chinese economy.

"Good. We're going to move one of the carrier battlegroups closer to Taiwan. I don't want them too close, just close enough that the Chinese know that we're taking an interest in the matter. My predecessor's failure to act during the annexation is part of the reason we ended up in this mess to begin with, and I intend to rectify that mistake while we can—especially now that the Taiwanese have removed the fig leaf Beijing used the last time. Instead of being a rebellious province, they are now an independent country, which will make our task much easier."

No one at the table disagreed, and Harrison looked over at Cavender. "How is the rest of the League taking this latest development?"

"They're still trying to determine that themselves. The Europeans welcome the news—they see it as a chance to rebuild while the Chinese fight. Our Pacific allies are inclined the same way, though the Koreans and Japanese seem torn between concerns over being targeted in a nuclear conflict and a desire to see the mainland lose Taiwan. Russia is copping a belligerent attitude, but…" Cavender made a dismissive gesture, and the rest of the table chuckled. The Russian army had demonstrated that it was no longer a force to be reckoned with, after having been defeated soundly at both Samarkhand and Tashkent. They would not attack China itself, not without some serious backing—backing which only Japan, the US, and India could provide.

Japan would not, because it remembered the last time it had invaded China. The United States would not, because Harrison remembered Vietnam.

India…

"What of New Delhi?"

Cavender spread his hands. "I don't know," he admitted frankly. "This time last year I would have said that they would go along with our plans to leave China alone until we strangled it economically, then force them to give up their holdings abroad. Now, after all that's happened, I fear that they might decide that invading China would be the perfect opportunity to establish themselves as the dominant Asian power for the foreseeable future."

Harrison wasn't so sure about that. Oh, he didn't think the Indians were disinterested saints, or some such nonsense—in the reports the DIA was getting from Burma about how they were dealing with the remnants of the previous government, the words "shot with his family while attempting to escape" were a recurring theme—but he highly doubted they would be willing to risk invading China. It wasn't like they were really in a good position to extend their influence much beyond its present bounds, thanks to internal problems and external geography, and he suspected they knew it too.

"See if you can get anything further from them," Harrison told him. "Right now, however, we're going to take a hands-off approach to the China problem. What news from the Balkans?"

Lightner cleared his throat. "Settling down, at least for now. The accords have been signed and ratified, and most of the diehards have been disarmed or destroyed. No one is really happy, but as long as we can keep a lid on things for the next few months we should be able to withdraw without the region descending into violence again."

"Good. Now, on to domestic matters…"

* * *

Reynolds had been happier than he was right now, several times in his life. But he had never, ever, felt more relieved than he did right now.

Which was somewhat amusing, since he and his battalion had just been relieved of their responsibility for Timisoara and the surrounding area, finally.

He only hoped that the Nordics and Balts would have a more peaceful time than he and his men had. They probably would—they had all the intel he and his men had gathered, most of the hotheads were dead, and no one was going to resent them for killing fathers and brothers, sons and uncles.

Also, they were actually getting some Civil Affairs support, much of which was going to be from the Guard rather than the regular army. That would be a tremendous help, one he wished he and his men had had. It figured that they'd get there right as he and his men were leaving.

At least they'd figured out what had been going on during that attack—the Hungarians had taken advantage of the Romanian attempt on his life to try and blame the latter for killing him. Of course, that revelation hadn't caused anybody to rethink anything, but that wasn't surprising.

The men had finished packing and preparing to move out this morning, and they would be ready to head to Bucharest, and then home, within the hour. He took a moment to look around at the town square. It was still under repair, but that would be finished soon enough. Give it a few months, and it would look like none of the fighting here had ever happened.

How long it would take to repair things between the locals was a different story, but that was about to no longer be his problem. After fighting his way across half of Europe, stopping a protest from becoming a riot, stopping two attempts at ethnic cleansing, and not only being kicked around rhetorically by both sides of the conflict but also nearly being assassinated, he was just ready to get out of here and go somewhere he didn't have to worry about getting shot at.

"Colonel!" he heard the mayor say, and he turned to where the official had just finished talking with the commander of the Finnish battalion that was taking over for them—and was walking towards him.

"I just wanted to thank you for all you did to keep this town safe," he said. "I know I said that during the ceremony, but I know that doesn't really mean a lot. That's what everyone says during that sort of thing. But you and your men kept us from becoming another Sarajevo." He smiled sadly. "Give it some time, and people will understand that—perhaps even those fools in Bucharest."

He paused. "Fare you well, Josiah Reynolds."

"Take care of yourself," the American replied, and the two men shook hands.

As the mayor turned to go talk to somebody Reynolds recognized as one of the local bigwigs, he turned to go back to his men. It was time for he and his men to go home. But he found himself saying a little prayer for the mayor of Timisoara. The man deserved a little peace, even if few of his neighbors did.

That done, he smiled. His wife was waiting for him. And, based on her most recent messages, eagerly so.

* * *

Thomas grimaced as his aide brought in yet another stack of papers. Granger, Alexander, and Townes were all out of Europe by now.

Townes was managing the cleanup ops in Syria, Iraq, and Iran, making sure that the Chinese hadn't left any fissile material behind and that as much of their heavy equipment was accounted for as possible, while also trying to set things up so the region wouldn't dissolve into a dozen little brushfire wars the moment the foreigners left.

The former alone was a Sisyphean task, and he doubted Townes would come up with answers that satisfied anyone that there wasn't going to be some lunatic trying to put together a caliphate with jury-rigged nukes and salvaged Chinese tanks cropping up again in the near-future. Then again, a little uncertainty about that sort of thing wasn't the worst possible outcome—it kept the politicians reminded that there were threats out there that didn't respond to bribes.

The latter was more feasible, but mostly because it would take the locals at least a few more months to reorganize enough to fight. He gave it a year, but by then it would no longer the United States' problem.

Granger was back in the States, talking with his fellows in the Air Force about how air doctrine would need to change. While the League had gained air supremacy early in the fighting, he knew as well as anyone that much of that had been because the Chinese air force had taken high casualties from guerrilla attacks on the ground. When American and Chinese aircraft had met in combat, the former had come out on top every time, but the one time they had fought when the Chinese had ground support it had been a very near-run thing.

Also, there were still a lot of improvements that needed to be made regarding air-ground coordination and targeting. There had been far too many snafus, missed opportunities, close calls, and outright friendly fire incidents. That, however, had always been true—and, Thomas feared, always would be.

Alexander was in the Pacific, working on improving the anti-missile systems that had been installed in Korea and Japan—and, he suspected, planning installations in the Philippines and Taiwan. That last was a dicey proposition, though. The Politburo had its back to the wall as Wu expanded his control, and they were making dire threats about what would happen if it looked like the League was going to recognize Taiwanese independence.

Even so, he would have gladly traded with any of the other three if it meant not having to deal with administrative and political headaches all day long. He was a soldier, not a diplomat, and he wished that Napier was around to pour the oil on troubled waters. Unfortunately, he was working in Central Asia, trying to set things up so that it would be harder for someone to set up something like the GLA there again.

To make his job harder, the Russians and Indians were mucking around, influencing the various ethnic groups to greater ambitions, depending on whose sphere of influence they would end up falling into. The Indians were backing the Uzbeks and Tajiks, the Russians the Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, and Turkmen, and both were pushing the Uighurs and the Dungan to declare themselves independent nations as well. Since the latter two had large populations in what had been China's prewar territory, Thomas thought that setting them up in independent ethnostates was a bad idea, and that the only thing that would be accomplished by such a venture was the destabilization of Western China.

Napier agreed, but at this point the trend in Central Asia and elsewhere was against them. The borders that had been drawn in the aftermath of the World Wars were being redrawn or had already been redrawn, and everyone wanted in on it.

India had already dismantled Pakistan, after all, finishing what they'd started in the `70s. After that, redrawing the boundaries of a bunch of actually failed states was child's play-especially after the war had made it very clear that Moscow was the junior partner, not New Delhi.

The analysts were saying that this might be Russia's last attempt to be one of the great powers, and that it would essentially remain one of the world's power brokers based on the sheer inertia provided by its seat on the Security Council and its nukes, until they ran out of money for the latter and India convinced them to give up the former in its favor.

That suited him. India, thanks to geography, was unlikely to pose the same kind of threat to the United States that China or Russia or Nazi Germany had. If they wished to dominate the Indian Ocean, what cared the United States? The Australians might have some concerns over that, to be sure, but as long as Washington maintained the alliance they should be mollified.

Of course, there were potentially concerning developments. No one was talking about reviving the old EU, which had been neither fish nor fowl, but the newly-elected Prime Ministers of the Nordic and Baltic states had held a meeting on Gotland a week ago, and had come out talking about a NorBalt Confederation. There were rumors of other such projects in the works, and while individually none of them could pose a threat to the United States, aside perhaps from the rumored Western Union that would supposedly contain France, Germany, and the Benelux states if the plan ever happened, it was entirely possible that eventually the Europeans would decide to take the unification plans one step further.

He doubted they would—the Greeks were too different from the Norwegians for them to live comfortably under the same government—but he knew enough history to know that the same might have been said of New Hampshire and Georgia in the 1780s.

But who knew? Perhaps the Euros would decide that regional unification struck the best balance, and stop there.

Those problems, however, would not be his to deal with, and he sighed before turning back to the problems that were his to deal with.

Why on earth did it require his signature to authorize field promotions, anyway?

* * *

Wu felt a strange mix of elation and weariness as he stood at the entrance of Tiananmen Square, across from where the Politburo had taken refuge in the Forbidden City.

Things had gone much better than he thought they would. The Xinjiang garrison's defection had meant that he had four combat-capable divisions in his force, and while he'd had to denude their spare parts, there'd been enough to ensure that all of the vehicles in those divisions could move.

He'd split his forces then, sending one division to the southeast to demonstrate against Guangdong and Fujian while leading the other three east to Beijing. As he'd anticipated, the Politburo had called the divisions from Fujian to defend the capitol, and once they had gotten north of the Yangtze, he'd left a division in a good defensive position and driven for Shanghai—carefully avoiding moving towards the Strategic Rocket Forces.

The coastal garrisons, and the air force, had declared for him nearly the moment that his lead elements had made contact, and he had found himself the controller of all of China south of Shandong and west of Shanxi.

That was when the Politburo had made their fatal mistake. Instead of ordering their forces to march against him, they had instead ordered the destruction of Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Hong Kong.

The Strategic Rocket Forces had then mutinied, once they received the launch codes, and informed them that if any missiles would be launched, it would be towards Beijing—and that if the nuclear missile subs launched, that would certainly happen.

They had then broadcast the news across China, and that information had caused Manchuria and the navy to declare for Wu as well.

That had actually not been welcome at the time-it meant that he had to push north a week earlier than planned, in order to keep the Politburo from sending troops to destroy those gallant fools in the north, which had put his logistics officers in their own personal hells as they tried to sort out how to skip several steps in the supply plan and still do their jobs. Even so, they had succeeded admirably and he planned to commend them once this was all over.

However, three days after his three divisions crossed into Shandong, he had blessed the brave imbeciles in the north, for their decision had caused the Politburo to decide that they had to destroy Wu in the open field. So instead of making their defense in the heart of Beijing, which would have been an utter meatgrinder for his forces, they had ordered their three divisions south, and they had met him in a meeting engagement outside Jinan.

The battle had been waged between three full-strength, well-trained, well-rested, well-supplied divisions against three somewhat understrength, well-trained, rather tired, indifferently-supplied field divisions.

His men had been wolves among lapdogs, and less than a tenth of the Politburo's force had managed to flee to the north, but even that remnant was intercepted less than two hours away from Beijing and relative safety by the division that had pushed directly east.

All told, one in fifty of the men who had left Beijing returned, leaving the Politburo with little more than policemen and their own personal guard regiment to defend the city. By the time Wu's men arrived on the outskirts of the city, all they had left was the latter, since the policemen had either defected or died—including the secret police.

Their progress through the city had almost been more of a triumphal parade than a march to battle, with people lining the roads and cheering as they went. Fortunately, the closer they got to where the Politburo and their guard had holed up, the fewer people there were—and they were focused on getting out of the way.

That was good—the fewer civilians that were in the line of fire, the better for everyone, except the Politburo. In his book, that was a bonus.

He was hoping that he wouldn't have to start throwing Overlord and Inferno Cannon rounds and Dragon Tank fire into the Forbidden City, as it was a cultural and historical treasure, and he'd always found it to be quite a peaceful place. Also, the proximity to Tiananmen Square made the use of a heavy hand a little more…awkward than it would have been otherwise.

If it came down to it, however, he would destroy the place. His men were worth more than architecture.

The Gatling Turrets and Bunkers were silent, though, and he wondered why. Were they hoping to negotiate with him, even now? It wasn't as though the balance of forces had changed in the past few hours. On the other hand, the longer they spent there the more time he had to put them into an untenable position. His engineers had already shut off the water and electricity to the place, and the generators wouldn't be able to sustain the place for long.

Also, Black Lotus had said that she was planning something with the security systems, though he didn't know what she planned on accomplishing. If it could get them in, or the Politburo out, without requiring a bloodbath, he didn't really care.

The gates opened, and three men came out, one holding a white flag. Could it be?

He saw the newly-promoted Colonel Luo hoist himself out of his Overlord—he wasn't about to tell the man who'd saved his life that he couldn't use his tank as a command vehicle—and walk towards the men.

They stood and spoke for a moment, and then Luo's voice came in over the radio. "The Politburo is dead. They surrender."

As his men erupted in cheers, Wu felt a great sense of relief wash over him—then, as he considered everything that needed to be done to keep the country from disintegrating, he felt it recede like the tide.

"Now what?" he muttered to himself.

* * *

Lin heard the General say "now what?" and felt a great sense of relief. Only a fool would not have wondered what he was going to do, now that he was effectively in charge of a country of more than a billion people going through a civil war and facing the certainty of defeat against its foreign adversaries.

She would treasure that moment, but would not speak of it—not for many years, not until after he was dead. So long as he was the fulcrum, there could be nothing that indicated that he was anything but as resolute as the mountains themselves.

"What are your orders, sir?" she asked.

"Tell Colonel Luo to tell the defenders to come out and stack their arms. They will be accorded the full honors of war—there is no reason to do them harm."

He paused. "Tell General Feng to send his MPs in to secure wherever the Politburo was before they passed. We need to account for all of them. And then…"

As Wu gave his orders, in command of the situation despite his worries, Lin smiled. China was in good hands, now.

* * *

Black Lotus smiled as she closed her laptop. Once Wu's army had made it into Beijing, it had been trivially easy to get herself into a position where she could connect to the Forbidden City's internal network, especially since the defenders were so focused on the tanks and artillery gathering outside the walls.

Once she'd done that, finding out where the members of the Politburo were holed up had been child's play—and, fortunately, they'd sequestered themselves in the lowest bunker, with no one else inside the room.

She'd taken a moment to listen in on them, and had been utterly disgusted. All they'd been able to talk about had been whether or not they'd be able to cut some kind of deal that would let them get away without having to face any kind of penalty. She hadn't expected anything else, mind, but it had still been disappointing.

Killing them had taken a bit more work, though. Setting up the right combination of factors had been more than a little tricky, especially because she wanted to avoid any other casualties besides them. Fortunately, the room had sealable doors, a lot of electrical wiring, and flammable materials.

So she'd re-routed enough power to overheat the wiring, which set the rooms on fire, then sealed the doors and switched off the power to the room, and did so in such a way as to make it look like a freak accident.

No one who actually investigated would believe that it was an accident, of course, and very few people who didn't investigate would believe it either. But as long as there was no proof otherwise, that would give Wu the plausible deniability he needed and deserved.

As she stood up and prepared to make her way out of the Forbidden City to where Cao and his men were waiting for her, she wondered what she was going to do with herself now that she'd done what she set out to do.

What she'd always done, she supposed. Fight for China and its people. Wu was far more popular than the Politburo had been, but he would have to make some decisions that would not be popular at all in order to finish this war before the country collapsed. The surrounding countries would also be circling like vultures, even after peace was restored.

There would be much to occupy her time until she retired or died—she suspected it would be the latter, since she liked her work—but she intended to ask for some leave once she got back to Wu.

She had mourning to do. But her lover could rest easy—he had been avenged.

* * *

Chernov leaned back in his chair and twiddled his thumbs for a moment.

Things had, so far, gone better than he had expected. He'd been promoted to deputy commander of the division, and had managed to ensure that his regiment went to one of his proteges, rather than another corrupt time-server. Better still, the new division commander was a non-entity and easily browbeaten—and he was a very good browbeater.

Of course, it had also been made very clear to him, albeit in not so many words, that this was where his career was going to end, and that he should probably retire in the next few years. He wasn't looking forward to that, but at least he could put off retirement for a little longer.

And who knew? Given what he planned on doing with the division, someone might get angry enough with him to kill him.

There were worse fates.

But right now, he had corruption to uncover. This was going to be fun. There was nothing quite like the look on a chiseling supply captain's face when his stealing was discovered.

* * *

Arslan leaned back in his chair and heaved a contented sigh. The war was over, most of his goals had been accomplished, and those that hadn't been accomplished had a good chance of becoming so.

First, humiliating and crippling the Chinese. The Brunei Accords had not been especially severe, as far as peace treaties went, but losing Taiwan and all of their overseas bases and economic assets had been an utterly galling experience for Beijing. He hadn't expected to, but he rather pitied Wu. The man deserved better than to be stuck propping up a government that had to have its first foreign policy act be acceptance of defeat. And it would require a lot of propping up—his analysts said the current regime should hold, but it would be a long time before the country re-stabilized, at least a decade.

Second, ending the GLA and making sure that he could no longer be linked to their more…dubious activities. Those who really knew what had been going on for the past decade would never believe that he hadn't been involved, but without proof he had the plausible deniability he needed to maintain his legitimacy. He had to care about things like that, these days. A change from when he was just a general, and not one he welcomed. But, like everything else, it was necessary.

Third, making sure his government was set securely in place. Koprulu was exactly what he wanted—a clear supporter of the regime, but not a lickspittle. The army was his, and while there was some restiveness over his intention to let the Kurds go, there was also a broad undercurrent of relief that that particular running sore was got rid of. The political opposition was starting to coalesce, but they were weak, and he was popular. There were still some GLA remnants, but nothing too bad.

Also, now that his people had a country, Barzani was proving to be a very useful ally, particularly in keeping a lid on Syria. The man he had in charge there, some fellow named Talabani, had proved to be extraordinarily effective at finding and destroying the remnants of the old Assad and GLA regimes.

He wondered, for a moment, if he should send someone after Kell.

No. All the men who were both trustworthy and competent were also the sniper's friends. Besides, Kell was unlikely to talk about what he'd done during the GLA war.

Most importantly, he didn't want to kill another old comrade.

And who knew? Perhaps there would be another task he could use him for, one that Kell would be willing to come out of retirement for.

After all, if there was one thing he'd learned, and that he hoped the Americans and Chinese had…

Nothing was ever over.

 **A/N: Well, that wraps this fic up. Hope you liked it, though I'm assuming you did if you made it this far. If there was anything you thought was good, bad, or just mediocre, please leave a review. Thanks. See y'all next time.**


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